WOODLAND  PATHS 


WINTHROP  PACKARD 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

PRESENTED  BY 

PROF.  CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 
MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


WOODLAND    PATHS 


THE  WORKS   OF 
WINTHROP    PACKARD 


WOODLAND    PATHS 
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WILDWOOD  WAYS 

Each  illustrated  by  Charles  Copeland 

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SMALL,    MAYNARD   AND   COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS  BOSTON 


Six  ducks  swung  over  my  head  in  the  rosy  dusk 


WOODLAND   PATHS 

i 

BY 

WINTHROP    PACKARD 

ILLUSTRATED  BY 

CHARLES  COPELAND 


BOSTON 
SMALL,  MAYNARD  AND  COMPANY 


PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,   1910 

BY  SMALL,   MAYNARD  AND  COMPANY 

(INCOEPOBATED) 


Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS,  CAMBRIDGE,    U.S.A. 


THE  author  wishes  to  express  his  thanks  to 
the  "  Boston  Transcript "  for  permission  to  re- 
print in  this  volume  matter  which  was  originally 
contributed  to  its  columns. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

SOUTH  RAIN   ...*......  i 

SPRING  DAWN.    ...'.',....  21 

MARCH  WINDS    . 41 

WOOD  ROADS 65 

THE  BROOK  IN  APRIL 87 

EXPLORATIONS 109 

EARLIEST  BUTTERFLIES 133 

APRIL  SHOWERS 153 

PROMISE  OF  MAY 175 

BOG  BOGLES 197 

BOBBING  FOR  EELS 219 

THE  VANISHING  NIGHT  HERONS  .     .    .  241 

HARBINGERS  OF  SUMMER 259 

INDEX  281 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Six  ducks  swung  over  my  head  in  the  rosy  dusk 

Frontispiece 

OPPOSITE   PAGE 

That  blood-curdling  screech  was  one  of  triumph 

over  the  sudden  death  of  a  rabbit 4 

He  sets  his  cotton-tail  white  flag  at  half  mast  from 
fear,  and  goes  whooping  through  the  brush  in 
a  frenzy 44 

There  was  a  clamor  of  blue  jays  as  the  hour  grew 
late 168 

The  air  was  vivid  with  friendly  staccato  calls      .     .     192 

The  wings  arch  in  similar  curves  and  lift  him  seem- 
ingly a  rod  in  air 254 

Her  bill  pointed  skyward  in  the  trustful,  prayerful 

attitude  of  all  birds  on  the  nest 278 


SOUTH    RAIN 


SOUTH    RAIN 

A  HE  night  was  dark  and  bitter  cold, 
though  it  was  early  March.  Over  in  the 
dismal  depths  of  Pigeon  Swamp,  where 
no  pigeons  have  nested  for  nearly  a  half 
century  though  it  is  as  wild  and  lone  to- 
day as  it  was  when  they  flocked  there  by 
thousands,  a  deep-toned,  lonely  cry  re- 
sounded. It  was  like  the  fitful  baying  of 
a  dog  in  the  distance,  only  that  it  was  too 
wild  and  eerie  for  that.  Then  there  was 
silence  for  a  space  and  an  eldritch  screech 
rang  out. 

It  was  blood-curdling  to  a  human  lis- 
tener, but  it  was  reassuring  to  the  great 
horned  owl  snuggling  down  on  her  two 
great  blotched  eggs  to  keep  them  secure 
3 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

from  the  cold,  for  it  was  the  voice  of  her 
mate  hunting.  Sailing  silently  on  bat-like 
wings  he  was  beating  the  open  spaces  of 
the  wood,  hoping  to  find  a  partridge  at 
roost,  and  I  fancy  the  deep  "  whoo;  hoo, 
hoo,  hoo;  whoo,  whoo,"  all  on  the  same 
note,  was  a  grumble  that  trained  dogs  and 
pump-guns  are  making  the  game  birds 
so  scarce.  Perhaps  that  blood-curdling 
screech  was  one  of  triumph  over  the  sud- 
den death  of  a  rabbit,  for  Bubo  virginiana 
is  tremendously  rapacious  and  will  eat 
any  living  thing  which  he  can  carry  away 
in  his  claws. 

It  might,  too,  have  been  his  method 
of  expressing  ecstasy  over  the  nest  and 
the  promise  of  spring  which  the  horned 
owl  alone  has  the  courage  to  anticipate 
with  nest-building  in  these  raw  and  barren 
days,  when  winter  seemingly  still  has  his 
grip  firmly  set  on  us.  Oftentimes  his 
4 


That  blood-curdling  screech  was  one  of  triumph 
over  the  sudden  death  of  a  rabbit 


SOUTH    RAIN 

housekeeping  arrangements  are  completed 
by  late  February.  No  other  bird  does  that 
in  Massachusetts,  though  farther  north 
the  Canada  jay  also  lays  eggs  about  that 
time,  way  up  near  the  Arctic  Circle  where 
the  thermometer  registers  zero  or  below 
and  the  snow  is  deep  on  the  ground. 

On  what  trees  he  cuts  the  notches  of 
the  passing  days  I  do  not  know,  but  surely 
the  horned  owl's  almanac  is  as  reliable  as 
the  Old  Farmer's,  and  he  knows  the  near- 
ness of  the  spring.  I  dare  say  the  other 
birds  wrhich  winter  with  us  know  it  too, 
though  not  being  so  big  and  husky  they 
do  not  venture  to  give  hostages  to  the 
enemy  quite  so  early  in  the  season.  The 
barred  owls  will  build  in  late  March,  and 
soon  after  April  fool's  day  the  woodcock 
will  be  stealing  north  and  placing  queer, 
pointed,  blotched  eggs  in  some  little  hol- 
low just  above  high  water  in  the  swamp. 
5 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

The  crows  are  cannier  still.  You  will 
hardly  find  eggs  in  their  nests  hereabouts 
before  the  fifteenth  of  April,  and  you  will 
do  well  to  postpone  your  hunting  till  the 
twenty-fifth.  Yet  they  all  know,  as  well 
as  I  do,  when  the  spring  is  near,  and  I 
think  I  have  the  secret  of  the  message 
which  has  come  to  them.  It  is  not  the 
fact  that  a  south  wind  has  blown,  for  this 
may  happen  at  any  time  during  the  winter, 
but  it  is  something  that  reaches  them  on 
the  wings  of  this  same  south  wind. 

This  night  on  which  the  horned  owl  of 
Pigeon  Swamp  brooded  her  eggs  so  care- 
fully was  lighted  by  the  moon,  but  toward 
midnight  a  purple  blackness  grew  up  all 
about  the  still  sky  and  blotted  out  all 
things  in  a  velvety  smear  that  sent  even 
Bubo  to  perch  beside  his  mate.  There 
was  then  no  breath  of  wind.  The  faint 
air  from  the  north  that  had  brought  the 


SOUTH    RAIN 

deep  chill  had  faltered  and  died,  leaving 
its  temperature  behind  it  over  all  the  fields 
and  forest.  The  air  stung  and  the  ground 
rang  like  tempered  steel  beneath  the  foot, 
yet  you  had  but  to  listen  or  breathe  deep 
to  know  what  was  coming.  The  stroke 
of  twelve  from  the  distant  steeple  brought 
a  resonance  of  romance  along  the  clear 
miles  and  the  air  left  in  your  nostrils  a 
quality  that  never  winter  air  had  a  right 
to  hold.  To  one  who  knows  the  temper 
of  the  open  field  and  the  forest  by  day 
and  night  the  promise  was  unmistakable, 
though  so  subtle  as  to  be  difficult  to  define. 
Whether  it  was  sound  or  smell  or  both 
I  knew  then  that  a  south  wind  was  com- 
ing, bearing  on  its  balmy  breath  those 
spicy,  amorous  odors  of  the  tropics  that 
come  to  our  frozen  land  only  when  spring 
is  on  the  way.  The  goddess  scatters  per- 
fumes from  her  garments  as  she  comes 
7 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

and  the  south  wind  catches  them  and  bears 
them  to  us  in  advance  of  her  footsteps. 
You  may  sniff  these  same  odors  of  March 
far  offshore  along  the  West  Indies,  — 
spicy,  intoxicating  scents,  borne  from  the 
hearts  of  tropic  wild-flowers  and  floating 
off  to  sea  on  every  breeze. 

With  them  floats  that  wonderful  grape- 
bloom  tint  that  touches  the  surface  of  all 
the  waters  to  northward  of  these  islands 
with  its  velvety  softness,  the  currents 
carrying  it  ever  northward  and  east- 
ward, sometimes  almost  to  the  shores  of 
the  British  Isles.  You  may  .see  it  all 
about  you  in  mid-ocean  as  your  vessel 
steams  from  New  York  to  Liverpool  or 
Southampton  or  Havre  or  the  Hook  of 
Holland.  Some  essence  of  all  this  gets 
into  the  air  on  the  southerly  gales  that 
are  borne  in  the  windward  islands  and 
whirl  up  along  our  coast  to  die  finally  in 
8 


SOUTH    RAIN 

Newfoundland  or  Labrador  or  Greenland 
itself.  I  believe  the  horned  owl  knows  it 
as  well  as  I  do  and  begins  his  nest-build- 
ing at  the  first  sniff. 

At  daybreak  the  wind  had  begun  to 
blow,  all  the  keen  chill  was  softened  out 
of  the  air,  and  blobs  of  rain  blurred  the 
southern  window  panes.  The  tempera- 
ture had  risen  already  above  freezing  and 
was  still  on  the  upward  path.  There  was 
in  all  the  atmosphere  that  rich,  cool  fresh- 
ness that  comes  with  rain-clouds  blown 
far  over  seas.  It  is  the  same  quality 
which  we  get  in  an  east  rain,  but  it  had 
in  it  also  that  suggestion  of  spiciness  and 
that  soft  purple  haze  which  drifts  away 
from  the  tropic  islands  that  border  the 
Caribbean.  Stopping  a  moment  in  my 
study  before  going  out  into  this,  I  found 
another  creature  that  had  felt  the  faint 
call  of  spring  and  answered  it,  I  fear,  too 
9 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

soon.  This  was  a  great  Samla  cecropia 
moth.  The  night  before  he  had  been 
safely  tucked  away  in  his  cocoon  over 
my  mantel,  where  I  had  hung  it  last 
December. 

In  the  night  he  had  answered  the  call 
and  now  was  perched  outside  his  cell, 
gently  expanding  his  wings  with  pulsing 
motions  that  seemed  tremulous  with  eager- 
ness or  delight.  I  noted  the  soft  delicacy 
of  the  coloring  in  his  rich,  fur-surfaced 
body  and  wings,  shades  which  are  reds 
and  grays  and  browns  and  ashes  of  roses, 
and  a  score  of  others  so  dainty  and  deli- 
cate that  we  have  no  words  to  describe  or 
define  them. 

A  wonderful  creature  this  to  appear  in 
a  man's  house,  sit  poised  on  his  mantel 
and  blink  serenely  at  him,  as  if  the  man 
himself  were  the  intruder  and  the  room 

the  usual  habitat  of  creatures  out  of  fairy- 
10 


SOUTH    RAIN 

land.  I  studied  him  carefully,  thinking, 
indeed,  that  he  might  vanish  at  any  mo- 
ment, and  then  I  went  out  into  the  woods 
in  the  soft  south  rain,  only  to  find  that 
his  colors  that  I  thought  so  marvelous  in 
the  shadow  of  the  four  walls  of  my  room 
were  •  reproduced  in  rich  profusion  all 
about  me. 

His  velvety- white  markings,  lined. and 
touched  off  with  bro\vn  so  deep  in  places 
as  to  be  either  purple  with  density  or 
black,  were  those  of  the  birch  trunks  all 
about  me,  and  there  were  the  rufous  tints 
that  shaded  down  into  pearl  pinks  and 
lavender  all  through  the  groups  of  distant 
birch  twigs.  His  gray  fur  was  the  soft- 
est and  richest  of  the  fur  of  the  gray 
squirrels,  and  this  gray  again  shaded  into 
red  in  spots  that  could  be  matched  only 
by  the  fur  of  the  red  'squirrel.  There 

were  soft  tans  on  him  of  varying  shades, 
ii 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

from  rich  to  delicate  pale,  and  all  the  last 
year's  leaves  and  grasses  had  them.  Nor 
was  there  a  color  about  him  which  was 
not  matched  and  repeated  a  thousand  fold 
in  bark  and  twigs  and  lichens  and  shadows 
all  through  the  wood. 

I  had  but  to  stand  by  with  the  great 
moth  in  my  mind's  eye  to  see  the  whole 
woodland  bursting  from  its  cocoon  and 
spreading  its  wings  for  .flight.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  that  is  what  it  is  going  to 
do  later  —  but  the  time  is  not  yet.  Mean- 
while the  south  rain  was  washing  its  colors 
clear  and  laying  bare  their  bright  beauty. 
In  it  you  saw  without  question  the  prom- 
ise of  new  growth  and  new  life.  Trees 
and  shrubs  stood  like  school  children  with 
shining  morning  faces,  newly  washed  for 
the  coming  session.  All  trace  of  dinginess 
was  gone.  The  yellow  freckles  on  the 

brown  cheeks  of  the  wild  cherry  gleamed 
12 


SOUTH    RAIN 

from  far ;  the  pale,  olive  green  tint  of  the 
willow's  complexion  was  transparent  in 
its  new-found  brilliancy. 

Looking  down  on  the  ruddy  glow  of 
healthy  maple  twigs,  it  seemed  as  if  they 
should  have  yellow  hair  and  sunny  blue 
eyes,  so  rich  is  the  coloring  of  these 
Saxons  of  the  wood  and  so  fresh  it  shone 
under  the  ministering  rain.  Even  the 
dour  scrub  oaks,  surly  Ethiopians,  were 
not  so  black  as  they  have  been  painted 
all  winter,  but  lost  their  ebon  tint  in  a 
hue  of  rich  dark  green  that  was  a  pleas- 
ing foil  to  the  cecropia-moth  beauty  of 
the  rest  of  the  woods. 

The  one  color  lacking  was  blue.  The 
sky's  leaden  gray  was  but  a  foil  for  the 
rich  woodland  tints,  and  I  wandered  on 
seeking  its  hue  elsewhere.  Over  on  the 
hillside  are  the  hepaticas.  Their  color 
when  open  is  hardly*  blue,  being  more 
13 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

often  purple  or  even  lavender,  yet  they 
would  do,  lacking  a  more  pronounced 
shade.  But  I  could  not  find  a  hepatica  in 
bloom  as  yet.  Their  tri-lobed  leaves  are 
still  green  and  show  but  little  the  wear 
and  tear  of  the  winter's  frosts  and  thaws. 
In  the  center  of  each  group  is  the  pointed 
bud  that  encloses  the  furry  blossoms,  itself 
as  softly  clad  in  protecting  fur  as  the  body 
of  my  moth  visitor,  but  no  hint  of  color 
peeped  from  it  as  yet.  You  need  to  look 
carefully  in  very  early  spring  to  be  sure 
of  this,  too;  for  the  hepatica  is  the  shy- 
est of  sweet  young  things,  and  when  she 
first  blooms  it  is  with  such  modesty  that 
you  have  to  chuck  the  flower-heads  un- 
der the  chin  to  get  a  glimpse  even  of 
their  eyes.  Later  on  the  coaxing  sun 
reassures  them  and  they  stare  placidly 
and  innocently  up  to  it  like  wondering 
children. 


SOUTH    RAIN 

Over  on  the  sandy  southern  slope  there 
might  be  violets,  too.  Later  in  the  year 
the  whole  field  will  be  blue  with  them  and 
all  about  are  their  rosettes  of  sagittate 
leaves,  which  the  cold  has  had  to  hold 
sternly  in  check  to  keep  them  from  grow- 
ing the  winter  through.  Indeed,  I  do  not 
believe  it  has  fully  succeeded.  It  has  been 
a  mild  season,  and  I  think  the  violets 
have  taken  the  opportunity  during  warm 
spells  of  several  days'  duration  to  surrep- 
titiously put  forth  another  leaf  or  so  in 
the  very  center  of  that  rosette.  If  so, 
they  might  well  have  followed  this  cour- 
age with  the  further  audacity  of  buds,  and 
buds,  indeed,  they  had  but  not  one  of  them 
was  open  far  enough  to  show  even  a  faint 
hint  of  the  blue  that  I  was  seeking. 

It  was  hardly  to  be  expected  of  the 
violets.  They  are  so  sturdy  and  full  of 
simple,  homely,  common  sense  that  it  is 
15 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

rare  that  you  find  them  doing  things  out 
of  the  usual  routine..  Warm  skies  and 
south  winds  may  tease  them  long  before 
they  will  respond  by  blooming  earlier  than 
their  wonted  date.  They  know  the  ways 
of  the  world  well  and  realize  how  unwise 
it  is  for  proper  young  people  to  overstep 
the  bounds  of  strict  conventionality.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  hepaticas,  with  all 
their  innocence,  perhaps  because  of  it, 
care  little  for  the  conventions.  Indeed, 
I  doubt  if  they  know  there  are  such 
things,  or  if  they  have  heard  of  them 
would  recognize  them.  It  is  likely  that 
in  some  sunny,  sheltered  nook  some  rash 
youngster,  all  clad  in  furs  of  pearl  gray, 
is  in  bloom  now,  though  so  shy  and  so 
hidden  that  I  was  unable  to  find  the  hint 
of  color.  I  have  known  them  to  half -open 
those  lavender-blue  eyes  under  the  pro- 
tecting crust  of  winter  snow. 
16 


SOUTH    RAIN 

Toward  nightfall  the  rain  ceased  and 
the  clouds  simply  faded  out  of  a  pale  sky, 
letting  the  sun  shine  through  with  gentle 
warmth.  Whither  the  mists  went  it  was 
hard  to  tell,  but  they  were  gone,  and  a 
soft  spring  sun  began  wiping  the  tears 
from  all  things.  Under  its  caress  it 
seemed  as  if  you  could  see  the  buds  swell 
a  little,  and  I  am  quite  sure,  though  I 
was  not  there  to  see,  that  at  this  moment 
the  willow  catkins  down  by  the  brook 
slipped  forth  from  their  protecting  brown 
sheaths  and  boldly  proclaimed  the  spring. 

They  might  have  done  so,  and  I  would 
not  have  seen  had  I  been  there,  for  just 
then  I  had  a  message.  "  Cheerily  we, 
cheerily  we,"  came  a  faint  voice  out  of 
the  sky.  An  echo  from  distant  angel 
choirs  practicing  carols  for  Easter  could 
not  have  seemed  more  musical  or  brought 
more  delight  to  me  down  at  the  bottom 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

of  the  soft  blue  haze  that  was  taking 
golden  radiance  from  the  setting  sun. 
Up  through  it  I  looked  to  the  pale  blue 
of  the  sky  and  saw  two  motes  dancing 
down  the  sunshine,  —  motes  that  caroled 
and  grew  to  glints  of  heavenly  blue  that 
fluttered  down  on  an  ancient  apple  tree 
like  bits  of  benediction. 

Just  a  pair  of  bluebirds,  of  course,  and 
I  don't  know  now  whether  they  are  the 
first  of  the  migrants  to  reach  my  part  of 
the  pasture  or  whether  they  are  the  two 
that  have  wintered  here  and  that  I  have 
seen  before  on  bright  days.  Wherever 
they  came  from  they  supplied  the  one  bit 
of  blue  that  I  had  sought,  and  their  pres- 
ence was  like  an  embodiment  of  joy. 
Then  the  gentle  prattling  sweetness  of 
their  carol;  what  a  range  there  was  be- 
tween that  and  the  wild  voice  of  the 
great-horned  owl,  heard  not  twenty-four 
18 


SOUTH    RAIN 

hours  before!  It  was  all  the  vast  range 
between  Arctic  winter  night  and  soft 
summer  sunshine.  The  owl  had  voiced  the 
savage  grumble  of  the  winter,  the  blue- 
bird caroled  the  gentle  promise  of  the 
spring. 

The  promise  may  be  long  in  rinding  its 
fulfilment,  of  course.  The  snow  may  lie 
deep  and  the  frost  nip  the  willow  catkins, 
—  though  little  they  '11  care  for  that,  — 
and  the  bluebirds  may  be  driven  more 
than  once  to  the  deep  shelter  of  the  cedar 
swamp,  but  that  does  not  take  away  the 
promise  that  came  on  the  wings  of  the 
south  wind,  —  the  promise  that  set  the 
great  horned  owl  to  laying  her  eggs  in 
that  abandoned  crow's  nest,  and  that  made 
the  bluebirds  seek  the  ancient  apple  tree 
as  their  very  first  perch.  March  is  no 
spring  month,  in  spite  of  the  "  Old 
Farmer's  Almanack."  It  is  just  a  blank 
19 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

page  between  the  winter  and  the  spring, 
but  if  you  scan  it  closely  you  will  find  on 
it  written  the  promise  we  all  seek,  —  the 
hope  that  lured  my  great  Samia  cecropia 
out  of  his  snug  cocoon. 


20 


SPRING   DAWN 


SPRING   DAWN 

1  HAVE  been  night-clerking  a  bit  lately 
—  social  settlement  work,  you  know  —  at 
the  Pasture  Pines  Hotel,  paying  especial 
attention  to  the  crow  lodgers,  and  in 
so  doing  have  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  in  the  last  score  or  so  of  years  the 
crows  in  my  town  have  changed  their 
habits. 

It  used  to  be  their  custom  to  roost  in 
flocks,  winters.  Over  on  the  Wheeler 
place  in  the  big  pines  you  could  find  a 
rookery  of  several  hundred  of  a  winter 
evening,  dropping  in  from  all  directions 
and  making  a  perfect  uproar  of  crow  talk, 
or  rather  crow  yells,  till  darkness  sent 
them  all  to  sleep,  sitting  together  in  long 
rows  on  the  upper  limbs,  I  suppose  for 
23 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

mutual  warmth.  Here,  each  with  head 
poked  deep  under  his  wing,  they  would 
remain  till  dawn,  when  with  more  uproar 
they  would  all  whirl  off  together  to  some 
common  breakfasting  place.  Later  in 
the  day  they  would  become  separated, 
only  to  drop  in  at  night  to  the  usual 
roost. 

It  was  not  a  very  safe  proceeding,  for 
farm  boys,  eager  to  use  that  new  gun, 
used  to  go  down  before  sunset  and  hide 
beneath  the  pines,  letting  go  both  barrels 
with  great  slaughter  after  the  crows  had 
become  settled.  Perhaps  this  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  the  breaking  up  of  the 
custom,  for  now,  though  many-  crows 
roost  on  the  Wheeler  place,  they  do  so 
singly,  each  in  his  own  room,  so  to 
speak. 

The  same  is  true  of  the  crow  guests 

at  the  Pasture  Pines  Hotel.     I  had  the 

24 


SPRING   DAWN 

pleasure  of  waking  them  early  there  this 
morning,  incidentally,  and  vicariously, 
waking  all  crow-town.  Last  night,  just 
as  the  last  tint  of  amber  was  fading 
from  the  sunset  sky,  letting  a  yellow- 
green  evening  star  come  through,  almost 
like  a  first  daffodil,  a  crow  slipped  bat- 
wise  across  the  amber  and  dropped  into 
a  certain  pine  to  roost. 

I  noted  the  tree,  and  this  morning,  be- 
fore hardly  a  glimmer  of  dawn  had  come, 
slipped  along  beneath  the  dark  boughs, 
planning  to  get  just  beneath  his  tree 
and  see  him  first.  But  I  had  planned 
without  the  obstructions  in  the  path  and 
the  uncertain  light.  I  approached  un- 
heard on  the  needle-carpeted  avenue  be- 
neath the  big  trees,  but  when  I  started 
across  the  field,  still  twenty  rods  away 
from  my  bird,  I  kicked  a  dry,  broken 
branch. 

25 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

"What?  What's  that?"  It  was  an 
unmistakable  crow  inquiry,  fairly  shouted 
from  the  tree  I  had  marked  as  the  roost- 
ing place.  There  was  n't  the  space  of  a 
breath  between  the  snap  of  that  branch 
and  the  answer  of  the  bird.  Surely  a 
night-clerk  in  crow-town  has  an  easy  task. 
There  need  be  no  prolonged  hammering 
on  the  door  of  the  guest  who  would  be 
called  early.  One  tap  is  sufficient.  I  had 
hoped  to  stand  beneath  that  tree  and  sight 
my  crow  in  the  gray  of  dawn,  see  him 
yawn  with  that  prodigious  black  beak  after 
he  had  withdrawn  it  from  under  his  wing, 
then  stretch  one  wing  and  one  leg,  as 
birds  do,  look  the  world  over,  catch  sight 
of  me  and  go  off  at  a  great  pace,  shout- 
ing a  hasty  warning  to  the  world  in 
general. 

But  he  did  not  need  to  see  me.     That 

breaking  branch  had  opened  his  eyes  and 
26 


SPRING   DAWN 

ears  with  one  snap.  He  heard  the  crisp 
of  my  footfall  on  the  frozen  grass  of  the 
field  and  immediately  there  was  a  great 
flapping  in  the  marked  pine  tree  and  he 
was  off  over  the  tops  of  its  neighbors  to 
a  safe  place  an  eighth  of  a  mile  away. 
He  said  three  things,  and  so  plain  were 
they  that  any  listener  could  have  under- 
stood them.  Languages  vary,  but  emo- 
tions and  the  inflections  they  cause  are 
the  same  in  all  creatures.  The  veriest 
tyro  in  wood-lore  could  have  understood 
that  crow. 

His  first  ejaculation  was  plainly  sur- 
prise and  query  blended.  In  his  sleep  he 
had  heard  a  noise.  He  thought  it,  very 
likely,  a  fellow  calling  to  him  to  get  up 
and  start  the  day's  work.  Then  when  the 
answer  wras  a  man's  footfall  he  flew  to 
safety,  sounding  the  short,  nervous  yelp 

which  is  always  the  danger  signal.    Then 
27 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

when  he  had  again  alighted  in  safety  he 
realized  that  it  was  morning  again  and 
he  was  awake  and  it  was  time  that  the 
gang  got  together.  "  Hi-i,  hi-i,  hi-i-i,"  it 
said.  It  was  neither  musical  nor  polite, 
but  it  was  intended  to  wake  every  crow 
within  a  half-mile  in  a  spirit  of  riotous 
good-fellowship.  There  was  no  further 
need  of  my  services;  every  crow  within 
a  half-mile  answered  that  call.  Then  I 
could  hear  those  farther  on  rousing  and 
taking  up  the  cry,  and  so  it  went  on,  no 
doubt  indefinitely. 

I  have  a  feeling  that  I  waked  every 
crow  in  eastern  Massachusetts  a  full  half- 
hour  before  his  accustomed  time,  simply 
by  kicking  that  dead  limb.  However,  I 
learned  one  thing,  and  hereby  report  it 
to  the  Lodging-House  Commission:  that 
is,  that  the  crows  hereabouts  have  now 

given  up  the  dormitory  idea  and  occupy 
28 


SPRING    DAWN 

individual  rooms  after  nightfall.  They 
were  scattered  all  through  the  pasture 
and  woodland  but  no  two  were  within 
twenty  rods  of  one  another. 

Their  minds  have  not  yet  turned  to 
nest-building  and  mating,  though  the  time 
is  near,  for  they  still  flock  in  hilarious 
good-fellowship  at  sunrise,  and  you  may 
hear  them  whooping  and  hurrahing  about 
in  crowds  all  day  long.  They  may  be 
beginning  to  "  take  notice " ;  I  suspect 
some  of  the  hilarity  is  over  that.  But 
they  have  not  come  to  the  pairing-off 
stage.  When  they  reach  that  the  flocks 
will  disappear  and  you  would  hardly 
think  there  was  a  crow  left  in  the  whole 
wood.  You  might  by  stepping  softly  sur- 
prise a  pair  of  them  inspecting  a  likely 
pine  in  the  pasture,  planning  for  the  nest. 
You  might,  by  listening  in  secluded  places, 

hear    the  "curious,    low-toned,    prolonged 
29 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

croak,  which  is  a  love-song.  I  have 
heard  this  described  as  musical,  but  it  is 
not.  It  is  as  if  a  barn-door  hinge  should 
try  to  sing  "  O  Promise  Me."  But  there 
will  be  no  more  congregations. 

Certainly  there  was  not  much  in  the 
aspect  of 'the  night  which  was  just  slip- 
ping away  when  I  waked  my  crow  that 
would  seem  to  justify  plans  of  nest-build- 
ing. The  thermometer  marked  twenty  in 
my  sheltered  front  porch  when  I  stepped 
out.  It  must  have  been  some  degrees 
below  that  in  the  open.  The  ground  was 
flint  with  the  frost  in  it.  The  old  thick 
ice  was  gone  from  the  pond,  indeed, 
broken  up  by  the  disintegrating  insinua- 
tion of  the  sun  and  the  vigorous  lashing 
of  northwest  gales,  but  in  its  place  was  a 
skim  of  new  ice  formed  that  night. 
Standing  still,  you  felt  the  lance  of  the 
north  wind  still;  it  was  winter.  Yet 
30 


SPRING   DAWN 

you  had  but  to  breathe  deep  to  get  the 
soft  assurance  of  the  near  presence  of 
spring,  and  if  you  walked  briskly  for  a 
moment  the  north  wind's  lances  fell  clat- 
tering to  the  icy  ground  and  you  moved 
in  a  new  atmosphere  of  warmth  and  geni- 
ality. Thus  point  to  point  are  the  picket 
lines  of  the  contending  forces. 

In  the  west  the  pale,  cold  moon,  now  a 
few  days  past  the  full,  was  sinking  in  a 
blue-black  sky  that  might  have  been  that 
of  the  keenest  night  in  December.  In  tire 
east,  out  of  a  low  bank  of  dark  clouds 
that  marked  the  dun  spring  mists  rising 
from  the  sea  twenty  miles  away,  flashed 
iris  tints  of  dawn  upward  into  a  clear, 
pale  sky  that  bore  dapplings  of  softest 
apple-green.  On  the  one  hand  were  night 
and  the  winter,  on  the  other  dawn  and 
the  spring,  and  down  the  pine-sheltered 
path  I  walked  between  the  two  to  a  point 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

where  I  stopped  in  delight.  The  pine 
path  ended,  and  the  willows  let  the  spring 
dawn  filter  through  their  delicate  sprays. 
Just  here  I  caught  the  hum  of  the  water 
rolling  over  the  dam  and  the  prattle  of 
the  brook  below,  and  right  through  it  all, 
clear,  mellow,  and  elated,  came  the  voice 
of  a  song  sparrow. 

"  Kolink,  kolink,  chee  chee  chee  chee 
chee,  tseep  seedle,  sweet,  sweet/'  he  sang 
and  it  fitted  so  well  with  the  rollicking 
tinkle  of  the  brook  that  I  knew  he  was 
down  among  the  alders  where  he  could 
smell  the  rich  spring  odor  of  the  purling 
water.  The  two  sounds  not  only  com- 
plemented one  another  as  do  two  parts 
in  music,  but  they  were  of  the  same 
quality,  though  so  distinctly  different.  It 
was  as  if  tenor  and  alto  were  being 
sung. 

I  had  gone  forth  expecting  bluebirds; 
32 


SPRING   DAWN 

I  had  half  hoped  for  a  robin  when  it 
came  time  for  matins,  for  robins  have 
been  about  all  winter,  and  here  a  song 
sparrow,  no  doubt  the  first  spray  from 
the  northward  surging  wave  of  migratory 
birds,  was  the  first  to  break  the  winter 
stillness.  He  had  hardly  piped  his  first 
round,  though,  before  the  voices  of  blue- 
birds murmured  in  the  air  above,  and  two 
lighted  on  the  willows,  caroling  in  that 
subdued  manner  which  is  the  epitome  of 
gentleness.  I  think  these  two  were  mi- 
grants, for  later  in  the  morning  I  heard 
others. 

Then  in  a  half  minute  there  was  a 
shrilling  of  wings  that  beat  the  air  rapidly 
and  six  ducks  swung  over  my  head  in  the 
rosy  dusk.  Most  ducks  make  a  swish- 
ing sound  with  the  wings  when  in  rapid 
flight,  but  this  was  so  marked  a  sibillation 
that  I  am  quite  sure  it  was  a  flock  of 
33 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

goldeneyes,  more  commonly  called  whist- 
lers, because  they  so  excel  in  wing  music. 
They  swung  a  wide  circle  over  my  head 
and  then  dropped  back  into  the  pond, 
where  an  opening  in  the  young  ice  gave 
them  opportunity.  Curiosity  probably 
brought  them  up.  They  wanted  to  see 
what  that  was  prowling  on  the  pond  shore 
in  the  uncertain  light,  —  a  prompting  that 
might  have  cost  them  dear  had  I  carried 
a  gun,  for  they  came  within  easy  range; 
then,  having  seen,  they  went  back  to  their 
fishing.  Their  presence  added  a  touch  of 
wildness  to  the  scene  that  was  not  with- 
out its  charm,  for  you  can  hardly  call  the 
bluebird  or  the  song  sparrow  wild  birds. 
They  are  almost  as  domestic  as  the  garden 
shrubbery. 

For  the  moment  the  bird  songs  and  the 
whistling  of  the  ducks'  wings  through  the 
rosy  morning  light  made  me  forget  the 
34 


SPRING   DAWN 

grip  of  the  winter  cold  that  was  in  all  the 
air,  yet  when  I  had  crossed  the  dam  and 
begun  to  clamber  along  the  other  shore 
of  the  pond  the  winter  reasserted  itself. 
Here  was  no  promise  of  changing  season. 
The  thick  ice  in  its  disintegration  had 
been  pushed  far  ashore  by  the  westerly 
gales,  and  here  it  was  frozen  in  pressure 
ridges  which  were  not  so  far  different 
from  those  one  may  see  on  the  Arctic 
shores.  To  them  was  cemented  the  young 
ice  of  the  night,  and  I  could  walk  along 
shore  in  places  on  its  surface,  its  struc- 
ture as  elastic  as  that  of  early  December. 
Here,  too,  was  piled  high  the  debris  not 
only  of  that  great  battle  in  which  the 
spring  forces  had  ripped  the  thick  ice 
from  the  water,  but  of  the  daily  skir- 
mishes in  which  winter  and  north  wind 
have  set  a  half-inch  of  ice  all  along  the 
surface  and  spring  sunshine  has  broken 
35 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

it  away  from  its  moorings,  obliging  the 
very  north  wind  that  made  it  to  pile  it 
in  long  windrows  high  on  shore.  To 
clamber  along  these  pressure  ridges  and 
hear  the  crunching  cakes  resound  under 
my  tread  in  hollow,  frosty  tones,  to  feel 
the  bite  of  the  north  wind  which  drifted 
across  the  new  ice,  was  to  step  out  of 
the  spring  promise  which  the  birds  had 
given  me,  back  into  the  Arctic.  I  was 
almost  ready  to  look  for  seal  and  wonder 
if  I  would  n't  soon  hear  the  wild  wolf- 
howl  of  Eskimo  dogs  and  round  a  point 
onto  one  of  their  snow-igloo  villages. 

The  song  sparrow  was  far  out  of  hear- 
ing and  here  we  were  in  mid-winter 
again.  Only  in  the  east  was  there  prom- 
ise. Through  the  dark  tracery  of  pond- 
bordering  trees  I  could  see  the  sky  all  a 
soft,  unearthly  green,  like  an  impression- 
ist lawn,  and  all  through  this  the  sun,  now 

36 


SPRING   DAWN 

close  below  the  horizon,  had  forced  into 
bloom  red  tulips  and  blue  and  yellow 
crocuses  of  spring  dawn.  From  the  ice 
ridges  it  was  all  as  unreal  as  if  it  were 
hung  in  a  frozen  gallery,  and  I  were 
an  unwilling  tourist  shivering  as  I  ob- 
served it. 

Again,  I  had  to  go  but  a  short  distance 
to  find  a  new  country.  Here  the  warmer 
waters  of  a  little  brook  came  babbling 
down  the  slope  and  had  pushed  away  all 
the  ice  ridges  and  warmed  its  own  path 
far  out  into  the  new  ice.  Along  its  edge 
the  alder  catkins  hung  in  grouped  tassels 
of  Venetian  red,  and  here  and  there  a 
group  had  so  thrilled  to  the  warmth  of 
the  running  water  that  even  in  the  face 
of  the  cold  wind  they  had  begun  to  relax 
a  bit  and  show  cracks  in  the  varnished 
surface  that  has  kept  the  stamens  secure 
all  winter. 

37 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

It  will  not  be  long  now  before  these 
favored  ones  will  begin  to  shake  the  yel- 
low pollen  from  their  curls.  Already  they 
are  giving  the  hint  of  it.  A  little  way 
upstream,  however,  was  a  far  more  potent 
reminder  of  the  coming  season.  I  caught 
a  whiff  of  its  fragrance  and  smiled  before 
I  saw  it. 

I  wonder  why  we  always  smile  at  this 
most  beautiful  spring  flower,  —  for  it  was 
a  spring  blossom,  the  very  first  of  the 
season,  which  was  growing  in  the  soft 
green  of  the  brookside  grass,  its  yellow 
head  all  swathed  in  a  maroon  and  green, 
striped  and  flecked,  pointed  hood,  lifted 
bravely  above  the  protecting  herbage  into 
the  nipping  air.  The  flowering  spadix  I 
could  not  see ;  only  the  handsome,  protect- 
ing spathe  which  was  wound  about  the 
tender  blooms  to  protect  them  from  the 
cold.  When  the  sun  is  high  in  the  sky 

38 


SPRING   DAWN 

this  spathe  will  loosen  a  bit  and  let  visit- 
ing insects  enter  for  the  fertilization  of 
the  blossom.  But  in  that  cold  air  of  early 
morning  it  was  wrapped  tight. 

I  have  seen  orchids  tenderly  nurtured 
in  conservatories  that  had  not  half  the 
honest  beauty  of  this  flower.  Neither  to 
me  is  the  odor  of  the  derided  skunk-cab- 
bage more  unpleasant  than  that  of  many 
a  coddled  and  admired  garden  bloom  — 
a  dahlia,  for  instance.  Yet  I  smiled  in 
derision  on  catching  the  first  whiff  of  it, 
and  so  do  we  all.  If  the  symplocarpus 
cared  it  would  be  too  bad,  but  it  does 
not.  Unconscious  of  its  caddish  critics, 
it  blooms  serenely  on  in  the  swamps  and 
takes  the  tiny  insects  into  its  confidence 
and  its  hood,  and  adds  a  bit  of  rich  color 
to  the  place  when  no  other  blossom  dares. 
And  even  as  I  looked  at  it  the  sun  slipped 
out  of  the  low  band  of  dark  horizon- 
39 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

mists  and  sent  a  golden  good-morn- 
ing like  a  benediction  right  down  upon 
the  head  of  the  humble,  courageous, 
sturdy  beauty  of  the  brookside.  After 
that  approval  why  should  any  blossom 
care? 


40 


MARCH   WINDS 


MARCH   WINDS 

F  OR  two  days  the  mad  March  winds 
have  been  blowing  a  fifty-mile  gale,  set- 
ting all  the  woodland  crazy.  No  wonder 
the  March  hare  is  mad.  He  lives  in 
Bedlam.  No  sooner  does  he  squat  com- 
fortably in  his  form,  his  fair  fat  belly 
with  round  apple-tree  bark  lined,  topped 
off  with  wee  green  sprigs  of  rash  but  suc- 
culent spring  herbs  from  the  brookside, 
ready  to  contemplate  nature  with  all  the 
philosophy  which  such  a  condition  engen- 
ders, than  the  form  rises  in  the  air  and 
its  component  leaves  skitter  through  the 
wood  and  over  the  hill  put  of  sight,  leav- 
ing him  denuded. 

The  usually  dignified  and  gentle  trees 
howl  like  beagles  on  his  trail.     The  pro- 
43 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

tecting  scrub  oaks,  gone  mad,  too,  dab 
and  flip  at  him  till  he  gets  fidgety  with 
thoughts  of  horned  owls,  and  things  rattle 
down  out  of  the  sky  as  if  he  were  being 
pelted  with  buckshot.  All  these  matters 
get  on  his  nerves  after  a  little,  and  if  he 
sets  his  cotton-tail  white  flag  at  half  mast 
from  fear  and  goes  whooping  through  the 
brush  in  a  frenzy,  there  is  small  blame  to 
him.  Even  man,  whose  mental  girth  and 
weight  are  supposed  to  be  ballast  sufficient 
against  all  bufferings,  going  forth  on  such 
a  day  needs  the  buttons  of  his  composure 
well  sewed  on  or  he  will  find  it  ripped  from 
him  like  the  hare's  form  and  sent  skitter- 
ing down  the  lea  along  with  his  hat,  while 
he  himself  bolts  here  and  there  fighting 
phantoms  and  objurgating  the  unseen. 

Mad  March  winds  are  a  good  test  of 
stability  of  soul.    He  who  can  stand  their 
weltings  with  serenity,  can  watch  his  un- 
44 


He  sets  his  cotton-tail  white  flag  at  half  mast  from  fear, 
and  goes  whooping  through  the  brush  in  a  frenzy 


MARCH   WINDS 

anchored  personal  belongings  go  mad 
with  the  March  hare  and  still  thrid  the 
sombre  boskage  of  the  wood  with  sunny 
thought  and  no  venom  beneath  his  tongue, 
ought  to  be  President.  Even  the  New  York 
papers  could  not  make  him  bring  suit. 

And  after  the  two  days  of  gale  how 
sweet  the  serenity  that  came  to  the 
thrashed  and  winnowed  pastures  and 
woodland.  I  fancy  it  all  feeling  like  a 
boy  at  school  who,  after  being  soundly 
flogged,  gets  back  to  the  soothing  calm 
of  his  accustomed  seat.  There  is  a  gentle 
joy  about  that  feeling  that,  as  many  of 
us  know,  has  neither  alloy  nor  equal.  The 
whole  woodland,  thus  spanked  and  put 
away  to  cool,  feels  the  winter  of  its  dis- 
content vanishing  behind  it  and  has  no 
room  in  its  heart  for  aught  but  the  peace 
and  joy  of  regeneration. 

The  gale  began  to  fail  during  the  second 
45 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

day  and  before  midnight  it  was  dead;  thus 
short-lived  is  frenzy.  I  do  not  know  now 
if  those  last  gentle  sighs  were  those  of  the 
wind  in  sorrow  of  its  misdeeds,  thus  on 
its  death-bed  repentant,  or  those  of  the 
trees,  themselves  given  a  chance  to  sleep 
at  last  after  a  forty-hour  fight  for  their 
lives.  In  the  threshing  and  winnowing 
of  the  woodland  none  but  the  physically 
fit  may  survive.  Oaks  that  have  held 
their  last  year's  leaves  lovingly  on  the 
twig  had  to  let  them  go  like  the  veriest 
chaff,  and  all  twigs  and  limbs  that  have 
been  weakened. 

And  as  chaff  and  debris  is  thus  pruned 
from  the  forest,  so  those  trees  themselves 
that  are  not  physically  fit  for  the  struggle 
for  existence  are  weeded  out.  The  eye 
may  not  be  able  to  pick  these,  but  the  gale 
finds  them.  If  the  whelming  pressure  of 
its  steady  onrush  is  not  sufficient  to  bring 


MARCH    WINDS 

them  down,  the  racking  of  varying  force 
and  the  torsion  of  sudden  changes  in  di- 
rection will  snap  the  weakened  trunk  or 
tear  out  the  loosened  roots.  Then  there 
is  a  groan  and  a  crash,  and  space  for  the 
younger  growth  to  spread  toward  more 
light  and  air: 

At  no  time  of  year  is  the  weakness  of 
roothold  so  liable  to  be  fatal  to  a  tree 
as  now.  During  the  winter  a  gale  may 
snap  a  tree  off  at  the  trunk  and  smash 
it  bodily  to  the  ground.  But  if  there  is 
no  weakness  in  the  trunk  there  can  be 
none  in  the  roots,  for  the  frost  that  is 
set  about  them  holds  even  the  shortest,  as 
if  embedded  in  stone.  But  now,  when  the 
solvent  ice  has  loosened  the  whole  surface 
for  a  depth  of  a  foot  or  more,  leaving  it 
fluffy  and  disintegrated,  those  trees  which 
have  no  tap-roots  and  hold  only  in  this 
lightened  surface  are  in  the  greatest 
47 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

danger  of  uprooting  of  the  whole  year. 
Farmers  often  clear  a  shrubby  pasture 
in  late  March  or  early  April  hereabout 
by  taking  advantage  of  this  fact.  They 
make  a  trace-chain  fast  about  the  base 
of  a  pasture  cedar  or  a  stout  huckleberry 
bush,  and  with  a  word  to  the  old  horse 
the  shrub  is  dragged  from  the  softened 
earth,  root  and  all.  In  mid-summer, 
after  the  ground  has  become  compact,  this 
is  not  to  be  done. 

It  is  the  spring  house-cleaning  time  of 
the  year,  when  nature  is  sweeping  and 
picking  up,  preparatory  to  laying  new  car- 
pets and  getting  new  furnishings  through- 
out, and  if  any  of  the  old  furniture  of  the 
woodland  is  not  able  to  stand  the  strain 
it  has  to  go  to  the  woodpile.  Without 
the  mad  March  winds  the  forest  would 
lose  much  of  its  fresh  virility,  the  old 

deadwood  would  cumber  the  new  growth, 
48 


MARCH    WINDS 

and  the  mild  melancholy  of  decay  would 
prevail  as  it  does  in  some  swamps  where 
sheltering  surrounding  hills  and  close 
growth  shunt  the  gales. 

Yet,  though  house-cleanings  are  no 
doubt  necessary  and  beneficient,  few  of 
us  love  them,  and  we  hail  with  equal  joy 
the  resultant  cleanliness  and  the  cessation 
of  the  uproar.  The  two  days'  gale  finally 
got  all  the  winds  of  the  world  piled  up 
somewhere  to  the  southward  and  ceased, 
and  the  piled-up  atmosphere  drifted  back 
over  us,  bringing  mild  blue  haze  that  was 
like  smoke  from  the  fires  of  summer  float- 
ing far.  All  things  that  had  been  taut 
and  dense  relaxed  into  dimples  or  softened 
into  tears.  The  frost  went  out  of  the 
plowed  fields  that  morning,  though  the 
sun  was  too  blurred  with  the  kindly  blue 
mist  to  have  any  force.  It  was  just  the 
general  relaxation  which  did  it. 
49 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

Then  is  apt  to  come  a  halcyon  day,  and 
though  the  kingfisher  is  not  here  to  brood, 
nor  will  he  be  for  a  month,  his  fabled 
weather  slips  on  in  advance  to  cheer  us. 
It  may  not  last  a  day.  March  is  as 
mad  as  April  is  fickle,  and  you  will 
need  to  start  early  to  be  sure  of  it. 
Then,  even  if  you  come  home  in  a  snow- 
storm, you  will  at  least  have  had  a  brief 
glimpse  of  that  sunny  softness  which 
is  dearer  in  March  than  in  any  other 
month. 

This  morning,  in  that  calm  which  is 
most  apt  to  settle  on  the  land  just  before 
sunrise,  the  whole  woodland  seemed  to 
breathe  freely  and  beam  in  the  soft  air. 
The  bluebirds  caroled  all  about,  and  where 
a  few  days  ago  one  song  sparrow  sur- 
prised me  with  his  song,  a  dozen  jubi- 
lated in  the  pasture  bushes.  A  half-dozen 
blackbirds  flew  over,  and  though  I  could 


MARCH   WINDS 

not  see  a  single  red  epaulet  in  the  gray 
light,  and  listened  in  vain  for  that  melo- 
dious "  kong-quer-ree  "  which  no  other 
bird  can  sing,  I  knew  them  as  well  by 
their  call  of  "  chut-chuck,"  which  is 
equally  characteristic. 

A  flock  of  goldfinches  lighted  in  the 
pines  with  much  twittering  and  sugges- 
tions of  the  summer  flight-note  of  "  per- 
chicoree."  But  that  is  no  more  than  they 
have  been  doing  all  winter.  In  a  moment, 
though,  the  twittering  changed.  A  melo- 
dious note  began  to  come  into  it,  and  soon 
several  in  the  flock  were  singing  rival 
songs  as  sweet,  though  I  do  not  think  as 
loud,  as  those  they  will  sing  when  June 
warmth  sets  the  whole  bird  world  a-choir- 
ing.  It  was  a  happy  note  in  the  cool  spring 
air,  for  it  was  more  than  a  spring  song. 
The  bluebirds  and  song  sparrows  voice 
that,  but  the  song  of  the  goldfinch  is  a 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

song  of  summer,  and  irresistibly  reminds 
one  of  fervid  June  heat  and  full-leaved 
trees.  It  was  a  warming,  winning  chorus, 
and  it  brought  the  sun  up  over  the  hori- 
zon, seemingly  with  a  bound. 

In  all  this  joy  of  early  matins  I  still 
miss  one  bird  note  that  surely  ought  to 
be  heard  by  now,  and  that  is  the  robin's. 
Robins  are  here  in  considerable  numbers, 
but  not  one  of  them  have  I  heard  sing. 
I  'm  afraid  the  robin  is  lazy,  but,  perhaps, 
it  is  just  his  honest,  matter-of-fact  nature 
which  does  not  believe  in  forcing  the  sea- 
son. He  will  sing  loud  and  long  enough 
by-and-by. 

Such  a  spring  morning  is  the  best  sea- 
son of  the  year  for  moth  hunting.  %  The 
moths  are  all  sound  asleep  still,  tucked 
away  in  their  cocoons,  that  are  also 
tucked  away  in  the  woodland  where  it  is 
not  so  easy  to  see  them  in  winter.  Now 
52 


MARCH   WINDS 

the  mad  March  winds  have  swept  the  last 
brown  leaves  from  the  bushes,  and  such 
moths  as  hang  up  there  for  the  winter 
sleep  are  easily  seen.  You  may  take  them 
home  and  hang  them  up  wherever  you 
see  fit,  and  you  will  then  be  on  hand  to 
greet  the  moth  when  at  his  leisure  he 
feels  prompted  to  come  forth  from  his 
snug  sleeping-bag. 

I  always  find  more  of  the  spice-bush 
silk-moth  than  any  others,  —  perhaps  be- 
cause we  both  love  the  same  woodland 
spots,  borders  of  the  ponds  and  streams 
where  the  benzoin  and  sassafras  flourish, 
or  upland  pastures  where  the  wild  cherry 
hangs  out  its  white  racemes  in  May. 
They  dangle  freely  in  the  wind,  looking 
for  all  the  world  like  a  left-over  leaf 
rolled  by  accident  into  a  rude  cylinder. 
Yet  the  moth  is  safe  and  warm  within, 
rolled  up  in  a  silken  coat  that  is  firmly 
53 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

glued  to  the  leaf;  and  not  only  that,  but 
extends  in  silky  fabric  all  up  along  the 
petiole,  and  firmly  holds  it  to  the  twig 
itself.  The  mad  winds  which  have 
scoured  the  bush  clean  of  all  leaves  and 
debris  have  had  no  strength  which  can 
pluck  this  "  last  leaf  upon  the  tree." 

If  left  to  itself  it  will  still  hang  there 
a  year  or  two,  perhaps  more,  after  the 
moth  has  emerged,  gradually  bleaching 
to  a  soft  gray,  but  still  clinging.  It  is  a 
splendid  quality  of  silk,  but  no  one  has 
yet  succeeded  in  reeling  or  carding  it. 
Callosamia  promethia  thus  escapes  be- 
coming a  product  of  the  farm  rather  than 
the  pasture.  It  is  a  fine  species  to  have 
hanging  in  winter  cradles  above  your 
mantel,  for  the  imago  is  large  and  beau- 
tiful, with  deep  browns  and  tans  softly 
shading  into  grays  that  are  tinted  with 
iris,  the  male  being  distinct  with  a  body 
54 


MARCH    WINDS 

color  of  deep  brown  less  diversified  than 
the  coloring  of  his  mate. 

The  Samia  cecropia  is  another  of  our 
silk-worm  moths  whose  cocoon  is  not  dif- 
ficult to  find.  The  cecropia,  instead  of 
rolling  up  in  a  pendant  leaf,  constructs 
his  cocoon  without  protection,  and  glues 
it  right  side  up  beneath  a  stout  twig  or 
even  a  considerable  limb.  I  have  one  now 
that  I  took  from  the  under  side  of  a  big 
leaning  alder  bole,  skiving  it  off  with  the 
bark,  but  most  of  those  I  have  collected 
have  been  attached  to  slender  twigs  of 
low  shrubs. 

But,  though  the  cecropia  does  not  roll 
up  in  a  leaf,  he  is  apt  to  place  his  winter 
home  where  dead  leaves  will  persist  about 
him.  I  have  never  found  him  so  plenti- 
ful as  the  promethea,  though  he  is  com- 
monly reported  as  numerous.  Perhaps 
this  habit  of  hiding  among  the  dead  leaves 
55 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

has  to  do  with  this.  He  is  our  largest 
moth,  and  in  beauty  of  coloring  is  sur- 
passed, to  my  mind,  only  by  two  others. 

One  of  these  is  Telia  polyphemus,  —  a 
wonderful  creature,  almost  as  large  as 
the  cecropia,  all  a  soft,  rosy  tan  with 
fleckings  of  gray  and  white  and  bands  of 
soft  violet-gray  and  pink,  and  great  eye- 
spots  of  white  margined  with  yellow, 
browed  with  peacock  blue,  and  ringed 
with  violet-black.  The  larva,  which  is 
bigger  than  a  big  man's  thumb,  is  a  beau- 
tiful shade  of  transparent  green  with  side 
slashings  of  silvery  white,  and  feeds  on 
most  of  our  deciduous  forest  trees. 

I  have  had  most  luck  in  finding  them 
on  chestnuts.  Last  fall,  when  beating  a 
chestnut  tree  for  the  nuts,  I  dislodged 
several,  one  of  which  I  brought  home  and 
put  in  a  cage  with  some  leaves.  He  re- 
fused to  eat,  but  in  a  day  or  so  spun  a 

56 


MARCH   WINDS 

cocoon  down  in  the  corner  of  the  box 
with  a  chestnut  leaf  glued  over  him.  No 
wonder  we  rarely  see  either  moth,  cater- 
pillar, or  cocoon.  The  larva  dwells  in 
the  higher  trees,  rolls  himself  in  leaves 
in  the  autumn,  and  spends  the  winter  on 
the  ground,  usually  covered  out  of  sight 
by  the  other  leaves.  Then  the  moth,  wary 
and  swift,  flies  only  by  night. 

The  Actias  luna,  the  beautiful,  long- 
tailed,  green  luna  moth,  is,  I  think,  better 
known,  for  it  has  a  way  of  flitting  about 
woodland  glades  in  late  June  or  July,  be- 
fore nightfall.  But  in  the  caterpillar  or 
the  cocoon  it  is  as  hard  to  find  as  the 
polyphemus,  and  for  similar  reasons.  It, 
too,  feeds  upon  walnut  and  hickory,  and 
in  the  fall  spins  a  papery  cocoon  among 
the  dried  leaves  on  the  ground. 

The  luna  moth  is  to  me  the  highest 
type  of  moth  beauty,  and  it  is  worth  a 
57 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

long  search  among  leaves  to  find  a  cocoon 
of  either  this  or  the  polyphemus,  and  have 
the  splendid  privilege  of  seeing  the  lovely 
inmate  later  emerge,  spread  its  fairy-like 
wings,  and  soar  away  into  the  soft  spring 
twilight.  It  is  as  great  a  wonder  as  it 
would  be  to  step  some  mid-summer  mid- 
night into  a  fairy  ring  and,  after  having 
speech  with  Mab  and  Titania  and  Puck 
and  Ariel,  see  them  flit  daintily  across  the 
face  of  the  rising  moon  and  vanish  in  the 
purple  dusk.  The  world  of  the  polyphe- 
mus  and  the  tuna,  the  cecropia  and  the 
promethea,  is  as  far  removed  from  ours 
and  as  full  of  strange  romance  as  that. 

Along  the  pond  shore  these  mad  March 
days  one  gets  glimpses  of  another  world, 
too,  that  is,  I  dare  say,  as  regardless  of 
us  as  we  are  of  that  of  the  moths.  This 
morning  in  the  dusk  of  young  dawn  the 
pond  was  like  a  black  mirror  reflecting 

58 


MARCH    WINDS 

the  shadows  of  the  sky.  But  across  it, 
near  the  middle,  was  drawn  a  silver 
streak,  the  path  of  ducks  swimming. 
Presently  I  heard  their  voices,  —  the  res- 
onant quack  of  a  black  duck  and  the 
hoarse  "  pra-a-p  pr-a-a-p  "  of  the  drake. 
As  they  called,  into  the  pond  with  a 
splash  came  a  small  flock  of  divers, 
showing  white  as  they  whirled  to  settle. 
The. two  species  swam  together,  seemed 
to  look  each  other  over,  held  who  knows 
what  conversations  in  their  own  way, 
then  separated.  It  is  not  for  black  duck 
and  buffleheads  to  congregate,  especially 
in  the  spring;  and  while  the  black  duck 
and  drake  swam  sedately  away,  the  buffle- 
heads began  to  hunt  the  small  white  perch 
which  swim  in  schools  near  the  surface, 
making  a  splash  as  if  a  stone  was  thrown 
into  the  water  at  every  lightning-like 
dive. 

59 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

Just  as  many  a  man  here  in  Massachu- 
setts lives  his  life  and  dies  without  ever 
having  seen  or  heard  of  a  polyphemus 
moth  or  a  bufflehead,  though  both  may 
fly  over  his  own  head  on  many  a  dusky 
twilight,  so  the  migrating  thousands  of 
ducks  each  year  fly  over  our  cities  and 
know  little  of  their  uproar  and  bustle, 
nothing  of  their  yearnings  toward  art  or 
theology,  or  of  the  inspiration  of  poets 
or  the  agony  of  the  down-trodden.  Their 
world  is  all-important  to  them;  ours  is 
nothing,  so  they  escape  our  guns,  which 
they  vaguely  feel  will  harm  them. 

Even  we  with  our  books,  our  labora- 
tories, and  our  concerted  research  into 
all  things  under  heaven  and  in  earth,  do 
not  get  very  far  into  the  lives  of  other 
creatures.  I  have  said  all  the  moths  are 
still  in  their  cocoons.  Perhaps  they  are, 

all  but  one,  at  least.     That  is  a   small 
60 


MARCH   WINDS 

brown  fellow  that  came  flying  across  the 
brook  in  the  chill  air  of  a  sunset  a  night 
or  two  ago  and  now  lies  dead  on  my 
desk. 

I  caught  him,  for  I  wanted  to  know 
what  moth  dared  come  forth  when  the 
ground  was  still  frozen  and  no  bud  had 
yet  burst.  But  I  would  better  have  let 
him  fly  along  to  work  out  his  own  destiny, 
for  in  all  the  moth-book  there  is  no  men- 
tion of  this  wee  brown  creature  that  dared 
the  frosty  night  with  frail  wings.  I  do 
not  think  he  was  an  uncommon  speci- 
men. Moths  are  so  numerous  that  only 
the  most  characteristic  varieties  of  the 
more  important  species  can  be  noticed  in 
the  text-books. 

On  my  way  home  I  crossed  a  sunny 
glade  among  the  pines,  and  here  I  met 
an  old  friend,  and  had  another  example 

of  the  workings  of  other  lives  whose  wis- 
61 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

dom  or  ability  is  beyond  our  ken.  On 
the  dark  trunk  of  a  pine  was  sitting  the 
spring's  first  specimen,  so  far  as  my  ob- 
servation goes,  of  butterfly  life,  an  An- 
tiopa  vanessa,  his  mourning  cloak  so 
closely  folded  that  it  made  him  invisible 
against  the  pine-tree  bark.  As  I  drew 
near  he  flipped  into  the  air  and  sailed  by, 
beautiful  in  his  tan-yellow  border  with  its 
spots  of  soft  blue. 

I  say  he  was  on  the  pine  bark,  but  I 
did  not  see  him  there.  For  aught  I  know, 
so  well  was  he  concealed,  the  tree  opened 
and  let  him  out,  then  closed,  that  his 
hiding  place  might  not  be  revealed.  I 
would  almost  as  sooa  believe  this  as  to 
believe,  what  lepidopterists  assure  me  is 
true,  that  this  frail  creature  lives  through 
the  zero  gales  and  deep  snows  of  five 
months  of  winter  to  come  out  in  the  first 

bright  days  of  early  spring  unharmed.    It 
'62 


MARCH   WINDS 

is  as  likely  that  a  pine  trunk  would  vol- 
untarily conceal  him  as  that  he  could  sur- 
vive, frozen  solid  in  some  crevice  in  a 
stone  wall  or  hollow  stump.  At  any  rate, 
he  is  out  again,  along  with  the  hepaticas 
and  song  sparrows,  and  though  the  March 
winds  and  the  March  hare  may  both  go 
mad  again,  we  have  had  moments  when 
the  spring  was  very  near. 


WOOD    ROADS 


WOOD    ROADS 

O  OME  time  in  the  night  the  tender  gray 
spring  mists  that  the  hot  afternoon  sun 
had  coaxed  up  from  all  the  meadowy 
places  realized  that  they  were  deserted, 
lost  in  the  darkness.  The  young  moon 
had  gone  decorously  to  bed  at  nine  o'clock, 
pulling  certain  cloud  puffs  of  white  down 
over  even  the  tip  of  her  nose,  that  she 
might  not  be  tempted  to  come  out  and 
dance  with  these  lovely  pale  creatures. 

They  were  dancing  then,  but  later  they 
trembled  together  in  fright,  for  the  kindly 
stars,  their  shining  eyes  grown  tremulous 
with  tender  tears,  vanished  too,  with- 
drawn behind  the  black  haze  which  the 
north  wind  sends  before  it.  A  nimbus, 
wind-blown  from  distant  mountain  tops, 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

was  spreading  over  the  zenith,  and 
through  it  the  gentle  spring  mists  heard 
resound  the  crack  of  doom,  the  voice  of 
the  north  wind  itself,  made  up  of  echoes 
of  crashing  ice  floes  out  of  Hudson's  Bay 
and  the  Arctic.  Then  the  spring  mists 
fled  to  earth  again,  but  had  no  strength 
left  to  enter  in.  Instead,  they  lay  there 
dead,  covering  all  things  a  half -inch  deep 
with  soft  bodies  of  purest  white,  and 
we  looked  forth  in  the  morning  and  said 
that  there  had  been  a  robin-snow. 

It  is  a  pity  that  those  gentle,  innocent 
gray-blue  spring  mists  should  die,  even 
to  be  lovely  in  death  as  they  are,  but  it 
is  their  way  of  getting  back  home.  In 
the  morning  the  repentant  sun  came  and 
dissolved  the  white,  silent  ones  into  gentle 
tears,  —  dayborn  dew  that  slipped  down 
among  the  grass  roots  and  laid  moist 

cheeks  close  to  daisy  and  violet  buds  as 
68 


WOOD    ROADS 

they  went  by,  and  almost  loved  them  into 
bloom.  A  few  more  robin-snows  and  they 
will  all  be  out.  Very  likely  somewhere  a 
dandelion,  some  sturdy,  rough-and-ready 
youngster,  quivered  into  yellow  florescence 
at  the  caress.  Robin-snows  and  the  cajol- 
ing sun  of  the  last  week  of  March  often 
make  summer  enough  for  this  honest, 
fearless  flower. 

Quite  likely  the  tender  joy  of  the  mists 
at  getting  back  safe  to  earth  under  the 
caress  of  the  eager  sun,  and  their  terror 
of  the  north  wind,  which  still  rumbles  by 
in  the  upper  air,  are  both  nascent  on  such 
days,  for  you  have  but  to  go  out  to  feel 
them,  and  they  inevitably  lead  you  out  of 
the  raw  mire  of  the  highways,  across  the 
wind-swept  pasture,  into  wood  roads. 

These  on  such  days  have  an  atmosphere 
of  their  own.  Here  the  thrill  of  the  sun 

is  as  potent  as  the  push  of  the  X-ray.    It 
69 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

slips  through  clothes  and  flesh,  nor  do 
bones  stay  it  till  it  tingles  in  the  mar- 
row, a  vitalizing  fire  that  is  soothed  and 
nourished  by  the  soft  essence  of  those 
dead  mists,  now  glowing  upward  from 
the  moist  humus.  No  wonder  the  wood- 
land things  come  to  life  and  grow  again 
at  the  touch !  The  north  wind  may  howl 
high  above.  Here  under  the  trees  the 
soft  airs  that  breathe  out  of  Eden  touch 
you  and  you  know  that  just  round  the 
curve  of  the  road  is  the  very  gate  itself. 

My  way  to  the  most  secret  and  with- 
drawn country  of  these  wood  roads  al- 
ways leads  me  across  Ponkapog  brook  at 
the  spot  where  rest  the  ruins  of  the  old 
mill.  It  is  three-quarters  of  a  century 
or  more  since  it  ground  grist,  and  of  its 
timbers  scarcely  a  moss-grown  remnant 
remains.  The  gate  to  the  old  dam  has 

been  gone  almost  as  long,  but  the  waters 
70 


WOOD    ROADS 

do  not  forget.  Every  year  the  spring 
floods  bring  down  what  driftwood  the 
pond  banks  can  spare  and  bar  their  own 
course  with  it  at  this  spot.  The  water 
rises  as  high  as  of  old,  for  a  brief  time. 

It  is  as  if  the  brook  paid  a  memorial 
tribute  thus  yearly  to  the  honest  labor  of 
the  pioneers,  now  long  gone.  For  a  time 
it  lasts,  then  the  cementing  bonds  of 
dead  leaves  fail  and  the  black  flood  roars 
through  to  the  sea.  Come  two  months 
later  and  where  its  highest  rim  touched 
you  will  find  that  it  planted  flowers  in 
loving  remembrance  also,  and  saxifrage 
and  dwarf  blue  violet  lean  in  fragrant 
affection  over  the  waters.  I  like  to  think 
that  on  Memorial  day  at  least  the  stream 
makes  echo  of  the  clank  of  the  old-time 
mill-wheel  in  its  liquid  prattle,  and  that 
the  shuttle  of  reflected  sunshine  dancing 
back  and  forth  is  a  glorified  ghost  of  the 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

old  wheels  whirling  once  more  in  memory 
of  the  miller  and  his  neighbors. 

Farther  on  I  reach  the  pond  shore,  and 
on  the  narrow  ridge  which  marks  the  old- 
time  high  tide  of  winter  ice  pressure, 
a  dry  moraine  always,  though  running 
through  marshy  land,  I  strike  what  must 
be  the  oldest  trail  in  this  part  of  the  coun- 
try. Here  is  a  path  which  was  traveled 
before  the  time  of  the  Norman  conquest, 
or,  for  that  matter,  before  Caesar  led  his 
victorious  legions  into  Gaul.  Here  the 
first  Indians  trod  dry-footed  when  they 
went  back  and  forth  about  the  pond  in 
their  hunting  and  fishing,  for  then,  as 
now,  it  was  a  natural  causeway. 

To-day  a  stranger,  seeking  his  way 
about  the  pond  for  the  first  time,  would 
not  fail  to  find  it,  and  the  habitual  wood- 
rover  of  the  region,  old  or  young,  knows 

its  every  turn.    Upon  this  to-day,  between 

72 


WOOD    ROADS 

the  marsh  and  the  bog  in  the  alluring 
spring  sunshine,  I  found  a  whole  bird 
convention.  Such  an  uproar!  It  was  as 
if  the  suffragettes  in  one  grand  concerted 
movement  had  swooped  down  upon  Par- 
liament by  the  air-ship  route,  as  the 
cable  says  they  threaten,  and  were  in  the 
heat  of  battering  down  its  walls  of  deaf- 
ness with  racket  and  roaring,  after  the 
fashion  of  the  attempt  on  Jericho  of 
old. 

The  blackbirds  were  in  the  greatest 
numbers  and  made  the  most  noise  indi- 
vidually. There  were  a  hundred  of  them, 
more  or  less,  sitting  about  in  the  trees  and 
bushes,  a  few  on  the  ground,  and  all  of 
them  practicing  every  call  or  song  that 
blackbird  was  ever  known  to  make.  All 
the  harsh  croaking  of  frogs  that  as  young 
birds  they  heard  from  the  nest  by  the  bog 
they  voiced  in  their  calls;  all  the  liquid 
73 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

melody  of  gentle  brooks  tinkling  over 
shallows,  and  the  piping  of  winds  in  hol- 
low marsh  reeds,  they  reproduced  in  their 
songs,  and  the  whole  was  jumbled  in  this 
uproarious  medley.  They  even  shamed  a 
robin  or  two  into  singing,  —  the  first  time 
I  have  heard  these  laggards  do  it  this 
year,  though  they  have  been  here  in  force 
for  some  weeks. 

There  seemed  to  be  no  cause  for  this 
other  than  the  joy  of  living.  It  was  just 
an  impromptu  concert  in  honor  of  the 
spring.  I  think  I  never  noticed  before 
how  vigorously  the  blackbird  uses  his 
tail  at  one  of  these  concerts.  All  the 
long  black  tails  present  worked  up  and 
down  as  if  each  were  a  pump-handle 
working  a  bellows  to  supply  wind  for  the 
pipings.  It  reminded  me  of  the  church 
organ-loft,  and  the  labors  of  the  boy  when 
the  choir  is  in  full  swing  and  the  organ- 
74 


WOOD    ROADS 

ist  has  everything  opened  up  and  is  danc- 
ing on  the  pedal  notes  to  keep  up. 

Either  side  of  this  trail  the  wood 
should  be  a  paradise  for  woodpeckers,  for 
the  trees  are  here  allowed  to  grow  old 
without  interference.  In  birch  and  maple 
stubs  the  flickers  have  dug  hole  after 
hole,  sometimes  all  up  and  down  a  single 
trunk.  The  downy  woodpeckers  have 
been  active  also  and  the  chickadees  have 
reared  many  a  nestful  of  fluffy  chicks  in 
the  same  neighborhood.  Yet,  with  all  the 
opportunity  that  the  flickers  have  had  to 
bore  in  soft  decaying  wood  for  food  or 
for  shelter,  I  see  that  they  have  also  dug 
a  round  hole  through  the  inch  boards 
in  the  peak  of  the  old  cranberry  house. 
This,  too,  was  probably  for  shelter,  for 
many  flickers  winter  with  us,  and  there 
would  be  room  in  the  old  cranberry  house- 
loft  for  a  whole  community,  but  I  won- 
75 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

der  sometimes  if  there  is  not  another 
reason. 

Just  as  beavers  and  squirrels  must 
gnaw  to  keep  their  teeth  from  growing 
too  long,  so  I  sometimes  think  that  wood- 
peckers need  to  hammer  about  so  much, 
whether  for  food  or  not,  to  keep  their 
bills  in  good  condition.  It  is  difficult  to 
otherwise  account  for  their  continual 
practice.  I  knew  a  flicker  once  who  used 
to  drum  a  half-hour  at  a  time  on  a  sheet- 
iron  ventilator  on  the  roof  of  a  building. 
I  think  he  did  it  to  keep  his  bill  properly 
calloused  and  his  muscle  up,  so  that  when 
he  did  tackle  a  shagbark  tree  with  a  fat, 
inch-long  borer  waiting  in  its  heart-wood 
the  chips  would  fly. 

This  low  pond-bank  moraine  with  its 
immemorial  trail  leads  all  along  the  north 
side  of  the  pond,  skirting  the  shoreward 
edge  of  the  great  bog  nicely.  It  takes 


WOOD    ROADS 

you  through  the  Talbot  plains  where  tan- 
brown  levels  stretch  far  to  the  northward, 
seeming  to  shrink  suddenly  back  from  the 
overhanging  bulk  of  Great  Blue  Hill,  and 
it  leads  again  into  the  tall  oak  woods, 
where  later  the  warbling  vireos  will  swing 
in  the  topmost  branches  and  cheer  the 
solemn  arches  with  their  gentle  carols. 
By-and-by  the  bog  ends  and  the  path 
marks  the  dividing  line  between  the  bul- 
rushes, marsh  grass,  bog-hobble  wickets, 
and  mingled  debris  of  last  summer's 
thorough  wort,  and  joepye  weed,  and 
marsh  St.  John's-wort  on  the  one  hand, 
and  the  soft  pinky  grays  of  the  wood 
on  the  other. 

The  climbing  sun  shines  in  here  fer- 
vently, and  the  clear  waters  lap  on  the 
sand  and  croon  among  the  water  weeds 
with  all  the  semblance  of  summer.  No 
wonder  the  wild  ducks  linger  long.  The 
77 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

pond  is  full  of  them,  —  black  ducks  and 
sheldrake,  —  quacking  and  whistling  back 
and  forth,  sometimes  forty  of  them  in 
the  air  at  once,  and  taking  no  notice  of 
the  wanderer  on  the  bank.  It  seems  to 
be  their  jubilee  day  as  well  as  that  of  the 
birds  on  shore. 

Thus  by  way  of  the  long  trail  teeming 
with  spring  life  I  reach  the  enchanted 
country  of  the  wood  roads.  Here  are 
no  pastures  reclaimed,  no  ancient  cellar 
holes  to  show  the  path  of  the  pioneer. 
Woodland  it  was  when  the  first  English- 
man came  to  Cape  Cod;  woodland  it  re- 
mains to-day.  Somewhere  in  its  depths 
the  barred  owls  are  nesting,  and  I  hear 
the  shrill  paean  of  a  hawk  as  he  harries 
the  distant  hillside.  But  for  the  most 
part  there  is  a  gentle  silence,  a  dignified 
quiet  that  befits  the  solitude.  It  is  the 
hush  of  the  elder  years  dwelling  in  places 

78 


WOOD    ROADS 

somewhat  man-harried  indeed,  but  never 
by  man  possessed.  In  this  country  to  the 
east  of  Ponkapog  Pond  lingered  longest 
the  moose  and  bear.  The  fox  makes  it 
his  home  and  his  hunting-ground  still;  I 
find  his  trail  still  warm,  and  in  summer 
you  should  tread  with  care,  for  an  occa- 
sional rattlesnake  trails  his  slow  length 
among  the  rocks.  The  most  that  man 
has  ever  done  here  is  to  shoot  and  chop 
trees.  The  echoes  of  axe  and  gun  die 
away  soon,  the  trees  grow  up  again,  and 
man's  only  mark  is  the  wood  roads. 

Roads  in  this  world  are  supposed  to 
lead  from  somewhere  to  somewhere  else, 
but  no  suspicion  of  such  definiteness  of 
purpose  can  ever  be  attached  to  wood 
roads,  unless  you  are  willing  to  say  that 
they  lead  from  the  land  of  humdrum  to 
the  country  of  romance.  Sometimes,  in 
following  them,  you  unexpectedly  come 
79 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

out  on  the  highway,  but  far  more  often 
you  have  better  luck,  and  the  plain  trail 
grows  gently  vague,  shimmers  away  to 
nothing,  and  you  find  yourself,  perhaps, 
in  a  beech  grove,  out  of  which  is  no 
path.  You  can  hear  the  young  trees 
titter  at  your  embarrassment,  but  you 
cannot  find  the  path  that  led  you  among 
them. 

Perhaps  in  all  your  future  wanderings 
you  may  not  come  upon  that  beech  grove 
again,  for  the  wood  roads  wind  and  in- 
terlace and  play  strange  tricks  on  all  out- 
siders. Particularly  over  in  this  region 
wood-lot  owners  sometimes  lose  their 
wood-lots,  and  are  able  to  get  track  of 
them  only  after  prolonged  search,  tum- 
bling upon  them  then  more  by  accident 
than  wit.  Sometimes  a  wood  road  inno- 
cently leads  you  round  a  hill  and  slyly 

slips  you  into  itself  again  through  a  gap 
80 


WOOD    ROADS 

in  the  thicket.  Thus,  before  you  know 
it,  you  may  have  gone  around  the  hill 
any  number  of  times,  as  strangers  get 
coursing  in  revolving  doors  in  the  en- 
trances to  city  buildings  and  continue  to 
revolve  until  rescued. 

Nor  can  you  tell  where  the  most  sedate 
and  straightforward  one  which  you  can 
pick  out  will  lead  you,  except  that  you 
know  it  will  be  continually  through  a  land 
of  delight,  and  that  Eden  is  bound  to  be 
just  ahead  of  you. 

It  is  difficult  to  understand,  though,  in 
all  seriousness,  how  these  roads  persist. 
Wood  cut  off  over  extensive  areas  grows 
up  again  in  thirty  or  forty  years  and  fills 
in  the  gap  in  the  forest  till  no  trace  of 
it  remains,  yet  the  roads  by  which  it  was 
carted  to  the  highway,  leading  once  as 
directly  as  possible,  seem  still  to  have 

some  subtle  power  of  resistance  whereby 
81 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

they  are  not  overgrown,  though  they  lose 
their  directness.  After  a  few  years  it 
seems  as  if,  glad  to  be  relieved  of  any 
responsibility,  they  took  to  strolling  aim- 
lessly about,  meeting  one  another  and 
separating  again  casually. 

I  never  see  a  wood-cart  coming  out 
with  a  load,  yet  the  road  seems  as  defi- 
nite in  marking  as  it  did  a  half-century 
ago.  But  that  is  one  of  the  fascinations 
of  the  region.  You  take  the  same  road 
as  usual,  and  by  it  you  come  out  at  some 
strange  and  hitherto  unheard-of  garden 
of  delight.  It  is  like  the  Arabian  Nights' 
Entertainments,  where  one  story  leads 
into  another  and  you  wander  on  with 
always  a  new  climax  just  ahead  of  you. 

Out  of  the  great  pudding-stone  boulders 
of  this  region,  of  which  you  may  find 
specimens  as  large  as  an  ordinary  dwell- 
ing-house standing  in  lonely  dignity,  you 
82 


WOOD    ROADS 

may  see  cunning  workmen  making  soil 
for  the  nourishment  of  these  forest  trees. 
Here  will  be  a  round  blot  of  yellow-gray 
lichen,  perhaps  a  Parmelia  conspersa, 
clinging  to  the  smoothest  surface  of  flint 
with  ease  and  sending  down  its  micro- 
scopic rhizoids  into  the  tiniest  crevice 
between  the  round  pebble,  which  is  the 
plum,  and  the  slate  which  makes  the  body 
of  the  pudding. 

On  another  part  of  the  boulder  you 
may  find  a  slanting  surface,  where  the 
parmelia's  work  is  already  done.  Its  tiny 
root-organs  have  dissolved  off  and  split 
away  enough  of  the  slate  to  loosen  some 
tiny  pebbles,  which  fall  to  the  ground  as 
gravel,  leaving  hollows  in  which  dew  and 
dead  lichens  make  a  soil  for  the  roots 
of  soft  pads  of  mosses.  Some  of  the 
boulders  over  here  are  like  Western 
buttes,  densely  tenanted  by  these  hardy 
83 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

cliff-dwellers,  the  many- footed  rock  lovers 
finding  foothold  where  you  would  hardly 
think  the  lichens  even  would  survive. 

I  never  tramp  these  roads,  which  it 
sometimes  seems  as  if  the  pukwudgies 
moved  about  in  the  night  for  the  confu- 
sion of  men,  without  being  lost,  at  least 
for  a  time,  and  finding  a  new  boulder  to 
worship.  Once,  thus  lost,  I  found  a  little 
gem  of  a  pond,  which  hides  in  the  hol- 
lows a  half-mile  or  so  east  from  Ponka- 
pog  Pond.  This,  too,  I  fear  the  puk- 
wudgies move  about  in  the  night,  for  I 
hear  of  many  men  who  have  found  it 
once  and  sought  it  again  in  vain. 

To-day  I  came  upon  it  once  more,  —  a 
cup  of  clear  water  in  the  hollow  of  the 
forest's  hand,  smiling  up  at  the  sky  with 
neither  inlet  or  outlet.  The  black  ducks 
had  found  it,  too.  They  greeted  my  ap- 
proaching footsteps  with  quacks  of  alarm, 
84 


WOOD    ROADS 

and  I  had  hardly  rounded  the  busnes  on 
the  bank  before  sixteen  of  them,  with 
much  splashing,  rose  heavily  into  the  air 
and  sailed  off  toward  the  big  pond. 

Even  in  their  fright  I  noticed  that  they 
went  out  as  the  animals  did  from  the  ark, 
—  two  by  two,  —  and  I  smiled,  for  it  is 
one  more  sign  of  spring.  I  noticed  the 
crows  in  couples  to-day  for  the  first  time. 
A  few  black  duck  breed  hereabout,  and 
the  little  pond  with  the  button-bushes 
growing  along  one  shallow  shore  as  thick 
as  mangroves  in  a  West  India  swamp 
might  well  be  considered  by  house-hunt- 
ing couples.  Sitting  under  a  mountain 
laurel  whose  leaves  furnish  the  only 
shade  on  the  bank,  I  watched  quietly  for 
nearly  half  an  hour.  Then  there  was  a 
soft  swish  of  sailing  wings,  and  a  pair 
dropped  lightly  in  without  splash  enough 
to  be  heard.  Yet  there  was  little  to  see, 
85 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

after 'all.  They  simply  sat  mirrored  in 
the  motionless  water  for  another  half- 
hour  by  the  town  clock,  looking  adoration 
into  one  another's  eyes,  then  snuggled 
close  and  swam  in  among  the  button- 
bushes  as  if  with  one  foot.  That  was 
all.  It  was  a  veritable  quaker-meeting 
love-making;  but  just  the  same  I  shall 
look  for  the  nest  among  the  button-bush 
mangroves  in  another  month,  and  I  do 
hope  that  pukwudgies  will  not  have  mixed 
the  wood  roads  and  hidden  the  pond  so 
well  that  I  cannot  find  it. 


86 


THE   BROOK   IN   APRIL 


THE    BROOK   IN   APRIL 

J.  HE  pond  is  a  mile  long,  but  it  is 
shallow,  with  a  level  bottom  that  was 
once  a  peat  meadow,  and  the  water,  hold- 
ing some  of  this  peat  in  solution,  has  a 
fine  amber  tinge.  It  is  as  if  the  sphag- 
nums  that  wrought  for  ages  in  the  bog 
and  died  to  give  it  its  black  levels  held 
in  reserve  vast  stores  of  their  own  rich 
wine  reds  and  mingled  them  with  the 
yellows  of  hemlock  heart-wood  and  the 
soft  tan  of  marsh  grasses  that  lie  dead, 
all  robed  in  funereal  black  at  the  pond 
bottom. 

By  what  mystery  of  alchemy  the  water 
compounds  during  its  winter  wait  under 
the  thick  ice  this  amethystine  glow  in  its 

89 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

pellucid  depths  I  do  not  know,  but  the 
spring  sunlight  always  shows  it  as  it 
sends  its  shafts  down  into  the  quivering 
shallows,  and  it  creams  the  foam  that 
fluffs  beneath  the  gate  of  the  old  dam 
and  flows  seaward. 

This  gate  is  always  lifted  a  little  and 
the  stream  never  fails.  In  spring  its 
brimming  volume  floods  the  meadows  and 
roars  down  miniature  rocky  gorges,  —  a 
soothing  lullaby  of  a  roar  that  you  may 
hear  crooning  in  at  your  window  of  an 
April  night  to  surely  sing  you  to  sleep. 
In  summer  the  gateman  comes  along  and 
puts  a  mute  on  the  stream  by  dropping 
the  gate  a  little,  and  it  lisps  and  purls 
through  the  little  gorges,  slipping  from 
one  rock-bound  pool  to  another. 

In  April  the  suckers  come  up,  breast- 
ing the  flood  from  another  pond  a  half- 
mile  down  stream,  to  spawn;  great, 
90 


THE    BROOK    IN    APRIL 

sturdy,  lithe,  shiny-sided  fellows  they  are, 
at  this  time  of  year  almost  as  beautiful 
and  as  alert  as  salmon,  weighing  some- 
times five  or  six  pounds.  The  same  in- 
toxication which  makes  the  flood  froth 
and  dance  and  shout  as  it  tumbles  down 
the  steeps  from  meadow  to  meadow 
seems  to  thrill  in  their  veins  and  give 
them  strength  to  cleave  an  arrow  flight 
through  the  quivering  rapids  and  gambol 
up  the  falls  with  an  exultant  agility  that 
seems  strange  in  this  fish  that  is  so  slug- 
gish and  dull  on  the  pond  bottom  in  mid- 
summer. 

Adam's  ale  is  brewed  the  year  round, 
but  it  is  the  spring  drought  that  works 
miracles  of  agility  in  the  blood  of  somber 
creatures.  Winter  fishes  are  like  some 
middle-class  Englishmen  sitting  glum  and 
motionless  in  their  stalls.  Only  when 
tapster  Spring  draws  the  ale  and  the  bar- 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

maid  brooks  dance  blithely  down  with 
foaming  mugs  do  we  learn  how  jovial 
and  athletic  they  may  be.  Thus  the 
suckers,  suddenly  waking  to  exuberant 
activity,  swim  the  frothing  current,  leap 
the  miniature  falls  like  gleaming  salmon, 
and  congregate  just  below  the  dam. 

Some  years  the  gateman  has  kindly 
instincts  at  just  the  psychological  moment 
and  comes  over  and  shuts  down  the  gate 
of  a  Saturday  afternoon  in  the  presence 
of  many  boys,  in  whose  veins  also  froths 
the  exultant  foam  of  spring  joy.  Then, 
indeed,  does  low  water  spell  Waterloo  for 
the  suckers.  In  the  shoaling  current  they 
flee  down  stream,  seeking  the  deeper  pools 
and  hiding  under  stones  in  water-worn 
hollows  wherever  they  can  find  refuge. 

There  is  a  crude  instrument,  formerly 
a  familiar  output  of  the  local  blacksmith, 
known  as  a  sucker  spear.  It  is  com- 
92 


THE    BROOK   IN   APRIL 

posed  of  two  cast-off  horseshoes,  one 
being  straightened  and  welded  across  the 
other  in  the  middle  of  the  bend.  This 
gives  a  rough  imitation  of  Neptune's  tri- 
dent with  the  three  prongs  a  good  half- 
inch  broad  and  usually  sharpened  to  a 
cutting  edge.  Mounted  on  a  long  pole  it 
is  complete,  and  its  possession  makes  of 
a  boy  a  vengeful  Poseidon  having  do- 
minion over  the  shallows  of  the  brook. 
Boys  who  know  no  better  because  they 
have  been  taught  by  their  elders  that  this 
is  the  way  to  do  it,  "spear  "  suckers  with 
these  instruments.  A  handy  youngster 
can  guillotine  a  five-pound  fish  into  two 
separate,  bloody  sections  with  this  plung- 
ing death,  and  fork  the  limp  and  quiver- 
ing remnants  up  on  the  bank  with  it. 

Even  the  boy  who  does  it,  though  he 
whoops  with  the  wild  delight  of  bloody 
conquest,   knows   that   this   is  not  sport. 
93 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

There  is  a  better  way  to  catch  suckers, 
and  he  who  has  once  learned  it  willingly 
discards  the  crude  instrument  of  the 
blacksmith  for  the  fine  touch  of  the  true 
sportsman.  He  matches  boy  against  fish, 
and  feels  the  man  thrill  through  his  mar- 
row every  time  he  wins.  It  is  the  same 
game  that  great  John  Ridd  learned  from 
his  primitive  forbears  on  the  West  of 
England's  moors,  whereby  he  went  forth 
to  tickle  trout  in  the  icy  stream  and  was 
led  into  the  enchanted  valley  where  dwelt 
huge  outlaws  —  and  Lorna  Doone. 

Bare-legged  and  bare-armed  you  wade 
into  the  icy  water  and  slip  your  hands 
gently  under  the  big  stones  at  bottom, 
wherever  there  are  crevices  into  which  a 
fish  might  enter.  If  you  have  the  requi- 
site fineness  of  touch,  experience  will  soon 
tell  you  what  it  is  you  feel  beneath  in  the 
darkness  of  the  watery  cave.  It  may  be 
94 


THE    BROOK   IN    APRIL 

nothing  but  the  fine  play  of  currents 
across  your  fingers,  in  which  all  sensi- 
tiveness and  expectation  seem  to  center. 
It  is  wonderful  how  much  soul  crowds 
down  into  your  finger-tips  when  they  feel 
for  something  you  cannot  see  in  places 
where  things  may  bite. 

There  may  be  a  turtle  there,  and  if  so 
you  have  leave  to  withdraw.  It  may  be 
an  eel,  and  you  need  not  mind,  for  the 
eel  will  take  care  of  himself;  you  can  no 
more  grasp  him  than  you  can  the  quiver- 
ing currents.  It  is  customary  to  expect 
water-snakes,  and  there  is  a  fineness  of 
delight  about  the  dread  that  the  expecta- 
tion inspires  that  is  just  a  little  more  than 
mortal.  Orpheus,  seeking  dead  Eurydice, 
must  have  turned  the  corners  on  the  way 
down  with  some  such  feeling.  Perhaps 
it  is  because  the  dread  is  groundless  that 
it  is  so  deific.  It  has  no  basis  in  the 
95 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

senses,  but  is  purely  a  creature  of  the 
finer  imaginings.  The  water-snake  is 
harmless  if  by  any  chance  he  could  be 
there.  But  there  is  no  chance  of  this. 
At  the  sucker  time  of  the  year  he  is  still 
sleeping  his  winter  sleep,  tucked  away  in 
some  rock  crevice  of  the  upper  bank,  safe 
from  flood  and  frost. 

If  you  prod  crudely  the  big  fish  will 
take  flight  and  rush  to  another  hiding 
place.  But  if  you  are  wise  and  careful 
enough  you  will  feel  something  swaying 
in  the  current  and  stroking  your  fingers 
like  the  soft  touch  of  a  feather  duster. 
It  is  the  big  fellow's  tail  and  you  will 
soon  learn  better  than  to  grab  it.  The 
muscular  strength  of  one  of  these  big  fish 
is  beyond  belief.  Howsoever  tight  your 
grip  on  him  here,  he  will  swing  his  body 
from  side  to  side  with  such  force  and 
swiftness  that  he  will  writhe  from  your 


THE    BROOK    IN    APRIL 

hold    before    you    can    get    him    out    of 
water. 

That  is  not  the  -way  to  do  it.  Instead, 
you  cunningly  slip  your  hand  gently  along 
from  his  tail  toward  his  head.  You  will 
likely  go  over  your  rolled-up  sleeve;  per- 
haps it  will  be  necessary  to  plunge  shoul- 
der and  even  head  in  the  effort  to  reach 
far  enough. 

Having  discounted  the  Plutonian  water- 
snakes  you  will  find  this  but  giving  zest 
to  the  game ;  indeed,  it  is  doubtful  if  you 
know  that  it  has  happened  until  it  is  all 
over.  Your  palm  slides  gingerly  over  the 
dorsal  fin  and  goes  on  till  you  feel  the 
gentle  waving  of  the  pectorals.  Then 
suddenly  you  grip  a  thumb  and  finger 
into  the  gills,  showing  the  iron  hand 
through  the  velvet,  and  with  one  strong 
surge  lift  your  fish  from  beneath  his  rock 
and  fling  him  high  upon  the  bank. 
97 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

There  is  a  fundamental  joy  in  this  kind 
of  fishing  that  you  can  get  in  no  other. 
If  there  were  fish  in  the  rivers  of  Para- 
dise Adam  caught  them  for  Eve  in  this 
way.  I  have  always  been  sorry  that  big 
John  Ridd  found  nothing  but  fingerling 
trout  on  his  way  up  the  little  stream  that 
led  to  the  Doone  Valley.  He  should  have 
tackled  our  brook  in  April. 

Along  the  stream  to-day,  noting  the 
pussy-willows  all  out  in  spring  garments 
of  pearl  gray  and  the  alders  swaying 
and  sifting  yellow  dust  from  their  open 
stamens,  I  passed  the  spot  where  Bose 
and  I  met  as  early  a  spring  run  of  fish 
as  often  occurs.  Bose  would  corroborate 
it  if  he  could,  but,  unfortunately,  Bose  is 
somewhat  dead,  as  much  so  as  a  dog  of 
his  spirit  and  imagination  can  be.  His 
bones  lie  decently  buried  down  under  the 

great  oak  where  he  loved  to  sit  and  think 
98 


THE    BROOK   IN    APRIL 

about  foxes,  but  I  am  not  so  sure  about 
the  rest  of  it.  If  there  are  any  happy 
hunting-grounds  where  the  souls  of  game 
flee  away  I  warrant  Bose  leads  the  pack. 
He  was  a  full-blooded  foxhound,  deep- 
chested,  musical,  lop-eared ;  and  he  did  n't 
know  a  fox  from  a  buff  cochin.  He 
hunted  continually,  but  rarely  on  a  real 
trail.  His  nose  was  for  visions. 

It  was  on  a  first  day  of  April  that  we 
came  out  of  the  door  together,  and  Bose 
took  one  sniff,  lifted  his  head,  bayed  mu- 
sically, and  was  off  into  the  pasture  with 
me  following,  both  of  us  ripe  for  any 
adventure.  There  was  a  smell  of  spring 
in  the  air;  indeed,  I  was  not  sure  but  it 
was  the  green-robed,  violet-crowned  god- 
dess whom  the  dog  set  forth  to  hunt.  If 
so,  I  was  more  than  glad  to  follow,  for 
the  winters  seem  long  in  my  town.  We 
know  that  the  sun-god  is  pursuing  Daphne 
99 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

northward.  We  have  signs  of  her  in  the 
yearning  of  willow  twigs  and  the  shy 
blooming  of  hepaticas.  If  she  should 
already  be  hiding  in  some  sunny,  shel- 
tered nook  of  the  pasture  Bose  would  be 
as  likely  to  go  after  her  as  any  other 
vision. 

March  had  gone  out  like  a  lamb,  trail- 
ing a  shorn  fleece  of  mists  behind  him,  — 
mists  that  morning  sun  tinted  with  opal 
fires  that  burned  out  after  a  little  and  left 
pale-blue  ashes  smeared  in  the  hollows  and 
blown  soft  against  the  distant  hills.  All 
through  the  air  thrilled  the  glamor  of 
those  new-born  hopes  that  attend  the  god- 
dess, and  I  wanted  to  give  tongue  with 
Bose  when  I  found  him  quartering  the 
barberry  slope  of  the  upper  pasture  with 
clumsy  gallop. 

He  had  led  me  plump  into  fairy-land  at 

the   first   plunge,   for    the   brown   leaves 
100 


THE    BROOK    IN    APRIL 

of  last  year  rustled  with  the  tread  of 
brownies,  and  I  came  up  in  time  to  see 
a  fat  gnome  rolling  along,  humping  his 
shoulders  and  jiggling  with  laughter  be- 
fore the  uproarious  onslaught  of  the  dog, 
turning  at  the  burrow's  mouth  to  grin 
in  the  teeth  of  eager  jaws  and  vanish 
into  thin  air  as  they  clicked.  A  wood- 
chuck?  So  Hodge  would  call  it,  seeing 
according  to  his  kind.  Probably  Bose 
knew  it  for  a  fox,  a  silver-gray  at  least, 
according  to  his  foxhound  dreams.  I 
myself  knew  that  spring  glamor  was 
on  all  the  woodland  and  that  this  was 
a  round-paunched  gnome,  guardian  of 
buried  treasure,  out  for  an  April  day 
frolic,  and  going  back  reluctantly  to  his 
post  after  having  a  moment's  fun  with 
the  dog. 

As  for  the  brownies,  they  were  signs, 
or  rather  forerunners,  pacemakers  to  the 
101   - 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

spring.  I  could  see  the  little  black  eyes 
and  droll-pointed  noses  of  them  as  they 
worked  eagerly  all  about  in  the  shrubbery, 
passing  the  word  that  the  goddess  might 
arrive  at  any  moment  and  that  it  was 
time  to  dress  for  her.  Now  they  whis- 
pered it  to  terminal  buds,  and  now  to 
lateral,  but  mostly  they  put  their  brown 
heads  down  among  the  leaves,  giving  the 
message  to  bulb  and  corm,  tuber  and  root 
stock.  I  could  hear  them  calling  all  about, 
a  quaint  little  elfin  note  of  "  tseep,  tseep," 
and  anon  one  would  turn  a  roguish  hand- 
spring and  vanish,  thus  hocus-pocusing 
himself  to  the  next  northward  grove. 

Busy  brownies,  they  were,  —  hop-o'-my- 
thumbs  clad  in  rufous-brown  feather  coats 
that  so  harmonized  with  the  dead  leaves 
among  which  they  worked  that  it  was 
difficult  to  see  them  except  when  they 

moved.    Ornithologists,  bound  by  the  let- 
102 


THE    BROOK    IN    APRIL 

ter  of  their  knowledge,  would,  I  dare  say, 
name  these  fox  sparrows;  but  even  these 
might  have  hesitated  and  forgotten  their 
Hteralness,  looking  into  newborn  April's 
smiling  face  that  blue-misted  morning,  out 
trailing  the  spring  with  Bose. 

Then,  much  like  the  brownies,  Bose 
vanished.  He  seemed  to  have  lost  the 
trail,  nor  was  my  scent  keener,  though  all 
about  were  signs.  The  maple  twigs  were 
decorated  with  rosettes  of  red  and  yel- 
low in  honor  of  her  coming.  Birch  twigs 
reddened  with  them,  and  the  woodland 
that  had  been  gray  was  fairly  blushing 
with  tell-tale  color.  Over  on  an  open, 
sandy  hillside  the  cinquefoil  buds  were 
beginning  to  curl  upward,  and  in  the 
heart  of  violet  leaves  faint  hints  of  blue 
made  you  think  of  sleepy  children  just 
opening  a  little  of  one  eye  at  promise  of 
morning. 

103 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

Here,  too,  I  was  conscious  of  a  faint, 
ethereally  fine  perfume  that  seemed  to 
float  suddenly  to  my  senses  as  if  it  had 
come  over  the  treetops  from  the  south. 
From  up  stream  came  the  babble  of  the 
brook  like  dainty  laughter.  If  I  had 
heard  the  swish  of  silken  garments  float- 
ing away  in  the  direction  from  which 
these  came  I  had  not  been  surprised. 
Eagerly  I  turned  and  followed  where  they 
led  me. 

Soon  I  heard  Bose  again,  a  half-mile 
behind;  he,  too,  had  caught  the  trail. 
Baying  eagerly,  he  galloped  by  a  few 
minutes  later,  interjecting  into  his  uproar 
by  some  strange  method  of  dog  elocution 
a  whine  of  recognition  and  an  invitation 
to  follow. 

So  he  went  on  down  the  pasture.  No 
leaf  bud  had  opened,  though  many  were 

agape,  ready  to  burst  with  the  pulse  of 
104 


THE    BROOK   IN    APRIL 

new  life  that  throbbed  through  the  twigs 
and  heighteneS  their  colors.  The  swamp 
blueberry  bushes  and  the  wild  smilax  were 
the  greener  for  it,  just  as  the  maples  and 
birches  were  the  redder.  With  your  ear 
to  the  bark  you  might  hear  the  thrum- 
ming of  the  sap  in  the  cambium  layers, 
practicing  a  second  to  the  drone  of  bees 
to  come  a  little  later.  And  still  the  fairy 
fine  scent  lured  me,  and  I  could  hear 
Bose's  voice,  eager  to  incoherence,  just 
ahead.  If  you  did  not  know  about  his 
visions  you  would  surely  think  he  had  a 
fox  in  his  jaw  and  was  shaking  him. 

Down  a  sunny  slope,  robed  in  the  di- 
aphanous gray-green  of  bursting  birch- 
buds,  the  fairy  odor  led  me  to  a  little 
bower  on  the  bank,  where  for  a  moment 
I  saw  the  nymph  herself  stand,  rosy  pink, 
slender  and  sweet,  gowned  in  the  birch- 
bud  color  all  shimmered  with  the  yellow 
105 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

of  alder  pollen  drawn  in  filmy  gauze  about 
her.  Strange  goblins  in  'silvery  brown 
danced  in  grotesque  gambols  at  her  feet, 
while  behind  the  bank  I  heard  the  splash- 
ing of  Bose  in  shallow  water,  frenzied 
howls  of  excitement  and  ecstasy  followed 
each  time  by  another  of  the  clumsy  gob- 
lins somersaulting  up  from  below  to  join 
the  dance.  Fairy-land  and  goblin  town 
had  indeed  come  together  in  celebration 
of  the  arrival  of  the  spring! 

On  the  threshold  of  this  realm  I  trod  a 
moment  bewildered,  and  then,  stumbling, 
broke  the  spell  with  a  hasty  exclamation. 
The  enchantment  vanished  like  a  dream. 
Standing  by  the  brookside  I  saw  only  the 
homely  world  again.  Yet  it  was  a  strange 
enough  sight.  Up  at  the  dam  the  gate 
had  suddenly  been  closed,  and  a  dozen 
three-pound  fish,  on  their  way  up  to 

spawn,  had  been  marooned  in  the  shallow 
1 06 


THE    BROOK    IN    APRIL 

water.  These  Bose  was  shaking  up  in 
wild  delight  and  tossing  up  on  the  bank, 
where  they  danced  in  clumsy,  fish-out-of- 
water  dismay.  These  were  the  dancing 
goblins;  nor  had  I  been  very  far  wrong 
about  Daphne.  There  she  stood  still, 
slender  and  dainty,  only,  just  as  when 
pursued  by  Apollo  of  old,  she  had  turned 
into  a  shrub.  There  she  stood,  the 
Daphne  mezereum  of  the  elder  botanists, 
the  clustering  blooms  of  pink  sending 
forth  their  faint,  sweet  odor  that  had 
come  so  far  down  the  pasture  to  Bose 
and  me  and  sent  us  hunting  visions. 

To  be  sure,  it  was  the  first  of  April ! 
But  the  joke  was  not  all  on  us,  for  Bose 
had  for  once  found  real  game,  albeit  such 
as  foxhound  never  hunted  before,  and  I 
had  found  the  spring.  Two  bluebirds, 
house-hunting  among  the  willows,  caroled 
in  confirmation  of  it,  and  Apollo  himself, 
107 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

shining  through  the  gray  mist  of  birch 
twigs,  kissed  Daphne  rapturously. 

She  was  so  sweet  that  I  did  not  blame 
him.  As  for  Bose,  he  actually  came  up 
and  licked  the  blushing  twigs,  then  in 
sudden  confusion  at  being  caught  in  such 
sentimental  actions,  tore  off  on  the  make- 
believe  trail  of  more  visions,  leaving  me 
to  rescue  his  gamboling  goblins  and  put 
them  back  into  their  native  water. 


1 08 


EXPLORATIONS 


EXPLORATIONS 

JL  O-DAY  I  remind  myself  forcibly  of 
Samuel  Pickwick,  Esq.,  G.  C,  M.  P.  C, 
whose  paper  entitled  "  Speculations  on  the 
Sources  of  the  Hampstead  Ponds  "  was 
received  with  such  enthusiasm  on  the 
part  of  the  Pickwick  Club,  for  I  have 
made  new  discoveries  of  the  sources  of 
Ponkapog  Pond.  These  are  quite  as 
astounding  to  me  as  were  the  Hampstead 
revelations  to  the  Pickwick  Club,  and  just 
as  those  sent  Mr.  Pickwick  and  his  friends 
forth  on  new  voyages,  so  these  led  me  to 
a  hitherto  undiscovered  country. 

In  spite  of  our  increasing  population 
and    our    progressive    business    activity, 
there  are  portions  of  eastern  Massachu- 
setts  towns   that   are   forgotten.     Often 
in 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

these  are  large  tracts  where  the  foot  of 
man  rarely  treads  and  the  creatures  of 
the  wilderness  roam  and  prey,  breed  and 
die  undisturbed  by  civilization.  They 
may  hear  the  hoot  of  the  factory  whistle 
morning,  noon,  and  evening,  or  the  faint 
echoes  of  the  distant  roar  of  trains,  but 
they  give  no  heed. 

Their  world  is  the  wilderness  and  their 
problem  that  of  living  with  their  forest 
neighbors.  Man  hardly  enters  into  their 
arrangements.  Now  and  then  one  of 
these  tracts  has  a  past  that  is  related  to 
humanity,  though  the  casual  passer  would 
never  suspect  it.  The  wilderness  sweeps 
over  the  trail  of  man  gleefully  and  his 
monuments  must  be  built  high  and  strong 
or  they  will  be  swept  away  with  a  Vapid- 
ity that  is  startling. 

It  is  only  by  perpetual  efforts  that  we 

hold  on  to  our  landmarks.    The  rain  will 
112 


EXPLORATIONS 

come  in  between  the  shingles  and,  begin- 
ning with  the  roof,  sweep  your  house  into 
the  cellar  just  a  mass  of  brown  mold 
before  you  know  it.  Then  the  frost  and 
sun  tumble  the  cellar  wall  in  upon  it,  and 
where  once  your  proud  dwelling  stood  is 
a  grass-grown  hollow.  To-day's  genera- 
tion trips  on  the  capstone  of  what  was 
the  tower  of  its  ancestors  and  thinks  it 
merely  a  projection  of  the  earth's  rib, 
which  it  is  and  to  which  it  has  returned. 

I  fancy  every  old  Massachusetts  town 
has  these  woodland  places  that  were  once 
the  hopeful  clearings  of  early  settlers. 
Now  and  then,  roaming  the  deep  wood 
where  only  the  creatures  of  the  primal 
forest  seem  to  have  freehold  tenure,  I 
find  an  alien  has  strayed  *from  the  elder 
years,  a  hermit  of  the  wood  and  of  our 
own  time.  I  know  a  purple  lilac  that 
dwells  thus  serenely,  miles  from  present- 
US 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

day  habitations,  in  a  scrub  forest  that 
was  fifty  years  ago  a  stretch  of  cathedral 
pines.  Only  long  search  showed  me  the 
faint  hollow  in  the  brown  earth  which  was 
once  the  narrow  cellar  of  a  wee  house. 
No  record  of  an  early  householder  here  re- 
mains other  than  that  planted  by  the  hope- 
ful housewife's  hand,  —  the  lilac  shrub. 

For  more  than  a  century  it  has  held 
the  ground  where  its  fellow-pioneers 
planted  it,  holding  close  within  its  pinky 
heart-wood  memories  of  English  lanes 
white  with  hawthorne  and,  far  beyond 
these,  indistinct  recollections  of  rose- 
perfumed  Persian  gardens,  the  home  of 
its  race.  Perhaps  upon  its  ancestral  root 
rested  the  feet  of  Omar  Khayyam  when 
he  wrote: 

And  when  like  her,  O  Saki,  you  shall  pass 
Among  the  guests  star-scattered  on  the  grass, 
And  in  your  blissful  errand  reach  the  spot 
Where  I  made  one  —  turn  down  an  empty  glass. 
114 


EXPLORATIONS 

Perhaps  within  the  fragrance  of  a 
blossom  that  sprang  from  the  same  stock 
old  Cromwell  and  his  Ironsides  paused 
some  May  morning  and  breathed  deep 
and  sang  a  surly  hymn.  We  propagate 
the  lilac  from  the  root,  not  the  seed,  and 
the  same  sap  has  flowed  through  the  veins 
of  the  present  strain  for  a  thousand  years. 
A  whiff  of  lilac  perfume  in  a  woodland 
tangle  next  month,  and  out  of  the  wilder- 
ness we  step,  from  one  ancient  garden 
to  another,  back  by  centuries  into  the 
pleasant  places  of  a  world  long  gone. 

To  many  a  New  England  child  the  smell 
of  lilacs  brings  homesickness,  and  he  does 
not  know  why.  It  is  because  it  is  the 
May  odor  of  the  vanished  home  garden, 
not  only  of  Myles  and  Priscilla  of  Ply- 
mouth, but  of  a  thousand  generations  of 
his  own  stock  before  them. 

The  woodland  of  to-day's  discoveries 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

is  not  such.  I  do  not  believe  pioneer  ever 
stoned  a  cellar  in  its  depths,  and  if  the 
Indian  set  his  teepee  here  it  was  only 
in  passing.  Now  and  then  the  harrying 
hand  of  man  has  cut  off  its  greater 
growth  and  let  the  sunlight  in  on  its 
roots,  that  the  adventitious  buds  may  have 
a  chance,  and  newer  and  stronger  trunks 
tower  upward  eventually,  but  the  shadows 
that  dapple  its  brown-leaf  mold  carry  no 
dreams  of  human  domination. 

The  vexation  of  axe  and  gun,  and  even 
the  searing  scar  of  flame,  are  only  minor 
incidents  in  the  great  work  of  the  wood, 
whose  ultimate  purpose  no  man  knows. 
We  see  the  rocks  disintegrated  and  the 
hollows  filled  with  richer  soil,  that  the 
forest  may  grow  taller  and  more  surely 
shelter  the  gentler  things  of  earth.  We 
find  it  holding  back  the  waters  in  its  cun- 
ningly contrived  bogs,  and  hiding  medic- 
116 


EXPLORATIONS 

inal  plants  in  its  hollows,  waiting  always 
with  benediction  in  its  leaves  for  the  com- 
forting of  weary  men;  but  we  feel  when 
we  know  the  woods  best  that  these,  too, 
are  but  its  casual  benefits;  its  great  pur- 
pose lies  deeper,  and  the  more  we  seek 
it  the  better  we  know  we  are. 

Great  men  come  out  of  the  forests  of 
the  earth.  If  they  are  not  born  there 
they  seek  the  place  before  coming  to  their 
greatness.  Lincoln  hews  rails,  Washing- 
ton surveys  and  scouts,  and  Roosevelt 
ranches  in  the  Western  wilderness.  Per- 
haps it  is  for  these  and  their  kin  that 
the  woods  exist.  It  is  always  Peter  the 
Hermit  that  leads  the  crusade,  and  with- 
out crusades  the  world  were  a  poor  place. 
It  seems  as  if  all  our  prophets  must 
wrestle  at  least  forty  days  in  the  wilder- 
ness before  coming  forth  with  brows 

white  with  the  mark  of  immortality. 
117 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

It  lies  at  the  southeast  corner  of  the 
pond,  beginning  at  the  little  bogs,  from 
which  it  springs  abruptly.  Along  the 
water's  edge  of  these  bogs  picknickers 
row  their  boats  all  summer  long,  and  catch 
fish  and  eat  sandwiches.  Inland,  a  foot 
or  two,  the  duck  hunter  in  the  autumn 
treads  precariously  along  the  quaking  sur- 
face with  his  eyes  on  the  margin,  or  per- 
haps on  the  ducks  that  swim  in  the  open 
pond,  but  rarely  does  any  one  penetrate 
the  bog-carpeted  swamp  of  great  cedars 
just  back  of  this  quaking  margin. 

And  this  is  strange.  The  passion  for 
exploration  is  born  in  all  hearts.  We 
are  prompted  to  go  to  Tibet,  or  seek  the 
sources  of  the  Nile,  or  penetrate  the 
jungles  that  lie  between  the  Amazon  and 
the  Orinoco.  I  have  felt  this  impulse 
strongly  myself,  and  longing  for  distant 

lands  have  passed  unnoticed  this  oppor- 
118 


EXPLORATIONS 

tunity  right  at  hand  for  penetrating  an 
untrodden  wilderness.  With  most  of  us 
the  undiscovered  country  lies  just  a  step 
off  the  beaten  track.  So  across  the  roll- 
ing bog  and  into  the  twilight  greenness 
beneath  the  cedars  I  sailed  to-day,  ventur- 
ing as  Columbus  did  over  a  known  sea  to 
an  unknown,  and  thence  to  a  new  world,  — 
one  where  straight,  limbless  cedar  trunks 
stand  close  like  temple  columns  under  a 
gray-green  roof  of  twigs  and  leaves. 

All  the  upper  tones  are  gray  and  green, 
for  this  is  the  world  of  the  mosses  and 
lichens.  The  ground  is  built  of  them, 
and  the  temple  columns  are  so  covered 
with  their  arabesques  and  bas-reliefs,  so 
daintily  frescoed  and  carved,  that  it  seems 
as  if  here  were  a  museum  of  all  designs 
for  the  beautifying  of  interiors  that  ever 
occurred.  And  as  all  the  tree  trunks  are 

gray  and  green  till  the  texture  and  color 
119 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

of  bark  is  hardly  to  be  discerned,  so  the 
carpeting  of  the  floor  of  this  temple  and 
the  upholstering  of  its  furniture  is  brown 
and  green.  The  thin  rays  of  the  sun  that 
filter  through  here  and  there  are  greenish 
gold,  till  the  whole  gives  an  under-water 
atmosphere  to  the  place,  and  you  walk 
about  as  a  diver  might  on  the  sea-bottom, 
with  things  new  and  strange  floating  at 
every  hand. 

Mosses  in  the  ordinary  woodland  we 
are  apt  to  pass  with  unseeing  eye.  They 
decorate  rocks  and  trees,  dead  stumps  and 
earth  with  such  unobtrusive  good  taste 
that  we  come  back  feeling  the  beauty  of 
the  woodland,  and  not  at  all  knowing 
what  made  it.  Some  fence  corner  or 
group  of  trees  or.  shrubs  or  a  stump  has 
touched  us  with  its  beauty,  and  so  well 
dressed  it  is  in  its  moss  clothes  that  we 

have  not  seen  them  at  all,  but  have  come 
1 20 


EXPLORATIONS 

away  only  with  the  recollection  of  how 
well  the  rock  or  the  stump  looked,  and 
we  cannot  say  whether  it  wore  a  plaid 
or  a  check  or  just  plain  goods. 

In  this  swamp,  however,  it  is  as  if  the 
whole  woodland  wardrobe  were  hung  up 
for  inspection,  an  Easter  opening  of  all 
kinds  of  wood  wear.  Here  the  Usnea 
barbata  trails  its  old  man's  beard  from 
the  cedar  limbs  well  up  in  the  arches 
above  the  pillars,  its  drooping  softness 
having  the  effect  of  delicate  tapestry. 
Clinging  lichens,  those  delicate  unions 
of  algal  cells  and  fond  fungi,  paint  the 
northerly  sides  of  the  tree  trunks  all  the 
way  down,  while  the  freer-growing  fringe 
or  fleck  the  southern  exposures.  Parme- 
lias  to  north,  cetrarias  and  stictas  to  the 
south  might  well  guide  the  wanderer, 
giving  him  the  points  of  the  compass  and 
leading  him  thus  to  his  path  again. 

121 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

Under  foot  the  sphagnum*  build  the  bog 
and  hold  chief  sway,  but  other  common 
varieties  dispute  the  footing  with  them. 
Here  is  the  acutifolia  with  its  pointed 
leaves  giving  the  tufts  the  appearance  of 
a  bunch  of  pointed  petaled  chrysanthe- 
mums, the  greens  and  purples  softly  shad- 
ing into  one  another  and  showing  a  fine 
contrast  with  the  drier,  yellower  portions 
of  the  plant.  Here,  too,  is  the  edelweiss- 
like  squarrosum  in  its  loosely-crowded 
clusters  of  bluish  green,  and  the  robust 
cymbi folium. 

All  these  grow  from  their  own  debris 
in  the  wettest  portions  of  the  footing. 
Wherever  there  is,  in  this  many-colored 
and  lovely  carpet,  a  dead  cedar  trunk  the 
dainty  cedar  moss,  creeping  everywhere, 
has  occupied  the  space  with  its  delicate 
fern-like  leaves,  making  of  all  ugly  rotten 

wood  the  loveliest  furnishing  imaginable 
122 


EXPLORATIONS 

for  these  solemn,  twilight  spaces.  Cushion 
mosses  pad  with  their  bluish-green  velvet 
hassocks  here  and  there,  and,  sitting  on 
one  of  them  that  I  might  put  all  my  wit 
into  seeing,  I  noted  for  the  first  time, 
though  growing  all  about  me,  in  fact,  a 
moss  that  I  had  never  seen  before,  —  the 
mnium. 

Its  delicate,  translucent  green  leaves 
are  little  like  those  of  a  moss  at  first 
sight.  One  thinks  it  rather  some  rare 
and  delicate  flowering  plant  of  the  wet 
bog,  now  but  thrusting  up  its  delicate 
leaves,  to  bloom  later.  I  dare  say  the 
mnium  punctatum  is  a  common  bog  moss. 
Very  likely  I  have  trampled  it  ruthlessly 
under  foot  before  this  in  following  some 
more  showy  denizen  of  the  deep  woods; 
but  to  find  it  thus,  exploring  a  new  swamp 
for  the  first  time,  it  gave  me  as  great 

pleasure  as  I  might  have  had  in  finding 
123 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

a  new  orchid  hiding  about  the  sources  of 
the  Orinoco. 

It  was  the  sphagnums  that  led  me  to 
the  brookside  and  caused  me  to  recall  that 
lusty  scientist,  Mr.  Pickwick,  and  his  dis- 
covery of  the  sources  of  the  Hampstead 
ponds.  And  while  I  stood  and  wondered 
I  saw  a  second  brook,  only  a  little  further 
on,  also  flowing  downward  into  the  sphag- 
num and  losing  itself  in  the  bog,  to  pass 
beneath  the  cedar  roots  and  moss  debris 
and  enter  the  pond. 

Some  ancient  traveler,  perhaps  Marco 
Polo,  passing  from  Babylon  to  Bagdad, 
coming  first  upon  the  Euphrates  and  then 
the  Tigris,  may  have  felt  some  of  the 
amazement  and  delight  which  I  had  in 
this  discovery.  Never  before  had  I 
known  of  a  brook  entering  the  pond.  It 
had  always  been  a  sheet  of  water  self- 
contained  and  sufficient  in  itself,  fed,  I 
124 


EXPLORATIONS 

thought,  by  springs  beneath  its  own  sur- 
face. I  had  paddled  by  and  tramped  over 
the  mouths  of  these  two  brooks  a  hun- 
dred times  and  never  knew  before  why 
the  pond  always  smiled  and  dimpled  as 
I  went  by.  No  wonder  it  laughs;  it  has 
kept  that  same  joke  on  ninety-nine  of  a 
hundred  of  the  people  who  frequent  it, 
and  I  am  not  sure  there  is  anothef 
hundredth. 

It  seemed  as  if  all  the  woodland  burst 
into  guffaws  of  laughter,  now  that  the 
joke  was  out  and  there  was  no  further 
need  of  keeping  quiet  about  it.  The 
cedars  rocked  in  the  west  wind  with  sup- 
pressed merriment  and  a  couple  of  red 
squirrels  snickered  like  school  children 
and  tore  up  and  down  the  lichen-covered 
trunks  and  fell  off  into  a  swamp  birch 
and  had  hardly  strength  to  hold  on,  so 
breathless  were  they.  A  pair  of  crows 
125 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

looking  up  nesting  material,  haw-hawed 
right  out  over  my  head  till  they  had  to 
stop  flapping  and  sail,  they  were  so  weak 
from  it,  and  a  whole  flock  of  chickadees 
tittered  all  along  behind  my  back  for  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  as  I  went  on  up  the 
swamp  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Euphrates. 

It  was  amusing,  and  after  a  little  I 
tould  see  the  joke  and  laugh  myself.  The 
Tigris  was  on  my  right,  and  by-and-by 
the  two  began  to  prattle  down  over  a 
hard  bottom  from  higher  ground.  Only 
for  a  little  way,  though,  for  here  we 
came  to  another  wide  swamp  which  the 
two  traversed  under  low  sprouts  of 
swamp  maple  and  birch,  the  ground  hav- 
ing been  cut  over  within  a  few  years. 

And  right  here  I  ran  into  a  full  chorus, 
a  raucous  cacophony,  an  Homeric  din  that 
sounded  as  if  all  the  rough-voiced  goblins 

between  Blue  Hill  and  the  Berkshires  were 
126 


EXPLORATIONS 

assembled  in  convention  up  stream  and 
had  just  heard  the  story,  particularly  well 
told.  I  knew  them.  They  were  the  wood 
frogs,  holding  their  annual  convention,  in- 
deed, in  the  water  all  along  the  marshy 
margin  of  the  swamp.  Once  a  year  they 
come  down,  as  people  go  to  the  seashore, 
disporting  themselves  in  the  waves  and 
making  very  merry  about  it.  They  were 
not  laughing  at  me.  They  were  simply 
shouting  their  happiness  at  being  thawed 
out  and  rinding  it  springtime  once  more. 

Their  voices,  pitched  about  an  octave 
below  middle  C,  and  all  on  one  note, 
sound  not  unlike  a  great  flock  of  ducks 
gabbling  wildly,  but  they  are  really  more 
nearly  musical  than  that.  After  the  con- 
vention is  over  they  go  back  to  the  woods, 
where  you  will  find  them  sitting  among 
the  leaves,  though  you  will  never  see  them 

till  they  see  you.     And  when  you  do  see 
127 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

them  they  are  in  the  air.  They  have 
surprisingly  long  legs  and  can  jump  tre- 
mendously, turning  in  the  air  as  they  go,  so 
that,  having  landed,  their  next  leap  will  take 
them  in  a  new  direction.  The  earth  seems 
to  swallow  them  as  they  touch  it,  for  their 
coloration  is  that  of  the  brown  leaves,  and 
they  leap  from  one  invisibility  to  the  next. 
Beyond  the  frog  chorus  I  found  my 
stream  again,  dancing  daintily  along  hem- 
lock shaded  shallows  and  rippling  over 
slate  ledges  in  the  latticed  shade  of  oak 
and  maple  twigs,  and  here  another  voice 
called  me,  a  staccato  whistle  with  a  sus- 
picion of  a  trill  in  it  now  and  then,  the 
voice  of  the  very  spirit  of  the  spring 
woodland,  —  the  hyla.  I  have  called  it  a 
whistle,  yet  it  is  hardly  that;  it  is  rather 
the  soft  rich  tone  of  a  pipe,  such  as  Pan 
might  have  imitated  when  he  first  blew 
into  the  hollow  reed  on  the  brook  margin. 
128 


EXPLORATIONS  * 

He  is  a  shy  fellow,  this  inch-long  brown 
frog  that  swells  his  throat  till  it  is  like 
a  balloon  and  pipes  forth  this  mellow  note, 
and  he  is  even  more  invisible  than  the 
wood- frog.  You  may  seek  him  diligently 
for  years  and  not  find  him,  for  his  voice 
is  that  of  a  ventriloquist  and  he  seems  to 
send  it  hither  and  thither.  It  is  as  if  this 
were  a  trick  of  some  frisky  Ariel  of  the 
wood  that  danced  about  and  whistled,  now 
before  and  now  behind  you.  When  the 
trill  comes  in  it  you  may  well  think  the 
tricksy  spirit  is  laughing  at  you  so  that 
his  voice  shakes.  It  would  be  no  surprise 
if  some  trilling  note  ended  in  a  giggle 
and  Ariel  himself  should  float  by  you  on 
the  mocking  air. 

The  great  chorus  of  spring  peepers  is 
to  come  later ;  now,  but  an  occasional  one 
has  waked  from  his  frosty  nest  beneath 

the  woodland  leaves  and  come  down  to 
129 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

the  water  margin  to  sing.  Nor  do  I 
know  whether  it  was  the  ventriloquial  call 
of  one  that  sounded  now  ahead  and  now 
behind,  now  above  and  now  below,  or 
whether  relays  of  jovial  invisible  sprites 
passed  me  on  from  pool  to  pool.  What 
I  do  know  is  that,  a  mile  or  more  beyond 
its  outlet  under  the  ooze  of  the  little  bog, 
I  found  the  source  of  my  Euphrates  in 
springs  that  boil  clear  through  the  sand 
and  send  forth  the  cool,  pure  water  for 
the  delectation  of  all  who  will  come  to 
drink. 

Here  upon  the  margin  I  heard  another 
chorus  that  repaid  me  for  all  the  rough 
laughter  of  the  wood-goblin  frogs,  —  the 
plaintive  melodies  of  a  little  flock  of 
vesper  sparrows,  newly  arrived  and  very 
happy  about  it.  These  come  later  than 
the  song  sparrows,  and  bring  a  quality 

of  wistfulness  in  their  song  which  in  this 
130 


EXPLORATIONS 

differs  from  the  bluff  heartiness  of  the 
earlier  bird.  It  is  as  if  their  joy  in  the 
strong  sun  and  the  awakening  of  creation 
was  tempered  and  softened  to  a  touch  of 
tears  at  some  gentle  remembrance.  The 
vesper  sparrows  recall  the  vanished  hap- 
piness of  past  summers  in  their  greeting 
to  that  which  comes. 

After  that  my  way  led  me  home  through 
the  purpling  woodland  toward  the  golden 
greeting  of  the  sunset.  I  had  tasted  to 
the  full  the  joy  of  exploration  and  dis- 
covery. I  doubt  if  Humboldt  felt  any 
better  coming  back  from  his  exploration 
of  the  sources  of  the  Caspian.  My  Eu- 
phrates I  know;  my  Tigris  I  have  re- 
served for  future,  perhaps  even  greater 
joy  of  tracing  to  its  source  in  the  mystic 
depths  of,  to  me,  untrodden  woodland. 


EARLIEST   BUTTERFLIES 


EARLIEST    BUTTERFLIES 

J  UST  as  in  midsummer  the  people  of  the 
little  pasture  and  woodland  hollows  must 
envy  those  of  the  hilltop  their  cool,  breezy 
outlook,  so  in  mid- April  the  thought  must 
be  reversed.  For  still  the  warfare  be- 
tween the  north  wind  and  the  sun  which 
began  in  February  skirmishes  and  reached 
its  Gettysburg  in  late  March,  goes  fitfully 
on,  with  Appomattox  hardly  in  sight. 

The  South  is  to  win  in  this  fratricidal 
struggle  though,  and  in  the  summer  mil- 
lennium of  peace  and  prosperity  the  two 
forces  will  join  hands  and  work  for  the 
good  of  the  whole  land.  Already  the 
warriors  of  the  North  are  driven  to  the 
hilltops,  where  they  still  shout  defiance, 
and  whence  they  rush  in  determined  raids 
135 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

on  the  valleys  below.  It  is  a  losing  fight, 
for  all  day  long  the  golden  forces  of  the 
sun  roll  up  the  land  and  fill  all  the  hollows 
and  hold  them  in  serene  warmth  and  peace. 
However  hard  last  night's  frost,  however 
stiff  the  gale  overhead,  I  can  always  find 
bowl-shaped  depressions  where  summer 
already  coaxes  the  winter-worn  woodland. 
The  very  first  squatters  in  this  land, 
whose  presence  antedates  those  people  of 
record  who  held  land  by  deeds  and  grants, 
seem  to  have  found  and  loved  these  little 
sun-warmed  hollows  too,  for  in  them  I 
find  the  only  traces  of  this  pioneer  occu- 
pation. Records  in  ink  or  on  parchment 
of  these  pioneers  are  few,  indeed,  and  these 
which  they  left  on  the  land  itself  are  but 
slight.  Here  a  depression  may  show 
where  a  tiny  cellar  was  dug,  though  no 
trace  of  stone  work  will  be  found.  It  was 
easier  for  the  pioneer  to  frame  his  cellar 
136 


EARLIEST    BUTTERFLIES 

wall  of  logs,  just  as  he  built  those  of  the 
house  above  it. 

You  may  find  by  careful  search  the 
worn  path  to  the  spring  nearby,  for  that 
which  is  written  on  the  earth  itself  remains 
visible  long  after  inscriptions  on  stone  are 
gone.  The  wind  and  the  sun,  the  frost  and 
the  rain,  will  erase  the  carving  from  your 
marble  tablet.  But  the  path  across  a  plain, 
once  worn  deep  and  firm  by  many  passing 
feet,  will  always  show  its  tracing  to  the 
discerning  eye.  Perhaps  a  huge  old 
apple-tree  stump  may  have  lasted  till  now, 
even  showing  faint  signs  of  life,  and  round 
about  what  was  the  immediate  dooryard 
the  trees  of  the  wood  may  cluster ;  but  they 
will  hold  back  and  leave  some  open  space, 
as  if  they  still  respected  invisible  bounds 
set  by  the  long  departed  human  occupant. 

There  seem  to  be  many  such  sleepy  hol- 
lows in  my  town,  spots  where  dreams 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

dwell  and  the  once  trodden  earth  clings 
tenaciously  to  the  prints  of  long-vanished 
feet.  Over,  their  tops  to-day  the  north 
wind  sings  his  war  song,  but  his  failing 
arrows  fall  to  earth  harmless,  for  golden 
troops  of  sunshine  roll  over  the  southern 
rim  and  fill  the  space  below  with  quivering 
delight. 

Just  to  walk  about  in  this  sunshine  is  a 
pleasure,  and  to  sit  in  the  pioneer's  hollow 
land  and  let  it  flood  your  marrow  is  to  be 
thrilled  with  a  primal  joy  that  is  the  first 
the  race  has  to  remember.  It  antedates 
the  first  man  by  unknown  millions  of  years. 
The  same  sun  touched  with  the  same  joy 
the  first  primordial  cell.  With  the  thrill 
the  one  quivered  into  two  and  thus  came 
the  origin  of  species. 

To-day  in  such  a  hollow  and  under  such 
a  sun  the  pageant  of  woodland  life  passed 
before  me,  much  as  it  may  have  passed 

138 


EARLIEST    BUTTERFLIES 

before  the  pioneer  as  he  sat  on  his  log  door- 
step and  rested  perhaps  from  labors  in  the 
cornfield,  whose  hills  of  earth  still  checker 
the  level,  sandy  plain  behind  his  hollow. 
Strange  that  the  brawny,  seventeenth-cen- 
tury adventurer  should  be  but  vanished 
dust  and  a  dream,  while  the  loam  that  he 
stirred  with  careless  hoe  holds  the  form 
that  he  gave  it  more  than  two  hundred 
years  ago !  Five  or  six  times  his  cornfield 
has  matured  a  forest,  and  the  great  trees 
have  been  cut  down  and  carted  away,  and 
yet  the  corn  hills  linger.  Thus  easily  does 
the  clay  outlast  the  potter. 

When  I  first  marched  into  the  tiny  clear- 
ing the  place  was  silent,  brown  and  de- 
serted, but  that  is  the  way  of  the  woodland, 
and  we  soon  learn  to  understand  it.  A 
certain  aboriginal  courtesy  is  required  be- 
fore you  are  allowed  to  become  one  of  the 
company.  Thus  among  the  Eskimos  you 
139 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

enter  an  assembly  and  sit  quietly  a  mo- 
ment until  one  of  those  already  present 
notices  and  speaks  to  you.  In  this  way 
you  are  admitted  to  fellowship.  It  is 
very  bad  taste  for  the  newcomer  to  speak 
first. 

So  at  first  I  noticed  only  the  brown  of 
last  year's  grasses,  the  dead  stems  of 
goldenrod  and  aster,  of  St.  John's-wort 
and  mullein.  A  tiny  cloud  slid  across  the 
face  of  the  sun  and  a  scout  of  the  north 
wind  blew  down  the  slope  and  chilled  the 
golden  glow  of  sunlight  with  which  the 
hollow  had  seemed  filled  to  the  brim. 
Looking  down  into  it  from  a  sheltered  spot 
on  the  rim,  I  had  thought  the  place  full 
of  dreams  of  June.  As  I  sat  down  in  the 
shadow  on  the  pioneer's  grass-plot  with 
the  scouting  north  wind  at  my  back,  it  was 
rather  a  recollection  of  November. 

A  dead  leaf,  frightened  by  that  scurry- 
140 


EARLIEST    BUTTERFLIES 

ing  wind,  dashed  down  over  the  tree  tops 
and  lighted,  a  brown  splash  on  the  pale, 
dead  grass.  Then  all  in  a  moment  the 
cloud  blew  by,  the  north  wind  saw  the 
enemy  all  about  him  in  force  and  dashed 
over  the  rim  of  the  hill,  the  amber  warmth 
of  the  sun  descending  and  filling  the  cup 
to  the  brim  with  the  gentle  ecstasy  of 
returning  summer. 

In  the  still  radiance  the  brown  leaf 
floated  into  the  air  again,  hovered  a  mo- 
ment before  my  very  eyes,  and  lighted 
near  by  on  the  gray  bones  of  what  had 
once  been  the  pioneer's  apple  tree.  Thus 
I  received  my  introduction.  I  had  been 
spoken  to  by  one  of  the  people  of  the  place, 
received  my  accolade  as  it  were,  and  was 
privileged  to  see  clearly.  For  the  brown 
leaf  was  not  a  brown  leaf  at  all,  but  a 
hunter's  butterfly. 

It  is  astonishing  to  find  already  so  many 
141 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

forms  of  frail  life  stirring  in  the  sun, 
though  just  a  night  or  two  ago  the  ther- 
mometer registered  ten  degrees  of  frost, 
and  the  ground  was  frozen  solid  the  next 
morning.  Here  was  my  hunter's  butter- 
fly, a  wee  dab  of  pulpy  cell  that  a  touch 
of  my  finger  could  crush,  borne  on 
wings  of  gossamer  frailness  that  might 
be  whipped  to  tatters  by  a  wind-snapped 
twig,  yet  sailing  serenely  about,  defying 
anything  to  harm  him. 

The  strange  part  of  it  is  that  he  has 
been  somewhere  hereabouts  all  winter 
long.  All  about  in  the  pastures  are  the 
frail  ghosts  of  last  year's  cudweed,  on 
which  as  a  caterpillar  he  fed.  But  it  is 
six  months  at  least  since  he  cast  off  his 
chrysalis  skin  and  emerged  in  his  present 
form  to  face  bitter  winds  and  a  constantly 
lowering  temperature,  days  of  chilling 

rain,  smothering  snow,  and  ice  that  coated 
142 


EARLIEST    BUTTERFLIES 

all  things  with  an  inch-thick  armor  for 
days.  All  the  wrecks  that  these  might 
have  caused  him  he  has  in  some  mysteri- 
ous fashion  escaped,  and  here  ,he  is,  as 
merry  as  a  grig. 

He  did  not  seem  to  be  hungry,  unless, 
like  me,  he  was  eager  to  devour  the  sun- 
shine. He  sat  on  the  gray,  weather-worn, 
fallen  trunk  of  the  ancient  apple  tree,  his 
wings  gently  rising  and  falling,  while  I 
noted  the  beauty  of  his  rich  reds  with  their 
black  and  white  markings  and  margins 
of  black  just  tipped  with  a  blueish  tinge 
on  the  tips  of  the  fore  wings.  Then  he 
closed  them  for  a  minute,  showing  me  the 
dark  blurring  of  the  under  parts  that  had 
made  me  think  him  a  dead  leaf  as  he  blew 
over  the  ridge  with  the  wind,  though  now 
I  could  note  the  blue  ocelli  of  the  after 
wings. 

It  was  only  for  a  moment  that  he  rested 
143 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

motionless  thus,  and  it  was  hard  not  to 
think  him  a  chip  of  ancient  bark  or  a  frag- 
ment of  a  leaf,  then  he  flipped  himself  into 
the  air  and  was  off  over  the  hill  again  in 
a  tremendous  hurry.  All  butterflies  get 
occasional  aerograms  and  go  off  as  if  on 
a  matter  of  life  or  death  in  response  to  the 
messages,  but  it  seems  as  if  these  over- 
winter chaps  were  especially  subject  to 
them  in  the  first  warm  days.  Later  an 
angle-wing  came  down  into  my  valley,  but 
he  did  not  stay  long  enough  for  me  to 
find  out  which  of  the  Graptas  he  was,  — 
whether  the  question  mark  or  the  comma, 
Grapta  interrogationis  or  Grapta  comma. 
I  should  call  him  the  comma,  for  his  stop 
was  of  the  shortest,  if  it  were  not  that  my 
doubt  of  his  identity  leaves  me  with  the 
query. 

The    rush    of   his    business    was    even 

greater  than  that  of  Pyrameis  huntcra, 
144 


EARLIEST    BUTTERFLIES 

and  with  one  flip  of  his  crooked-edged 
wings  he  was  out  of  sight. 

Three  other  butterflies  I  saw  during  the 
day  in  the  neighborhood  of  my  sunny 
hollow.  One,  the  mourning  cloak,  Va- 
nessa antiopa,  I  always  expect  to  see  on 
warm  days  in  the  sunny  brown  woods  of 
April,  and  am  rarely  disappointed.  An- 
other which  took  the  air  from  the  hillocked 
ground  of  the  two-century-old  cornfield  I 
thought  to  be  Vanessa  j-album,  more  fa- 
miliarly known,  perhaps,  as  the  Compton 
tortoise.  I  would  have  been  glad  to  know 
this  surely,  for  this  butterfly  is  rather  rare 
here;  but  bless  me,  he  went  off  over  the 
hills  at  a  rate  that  shamed  the  flipperty 
angle-wing.  These  dilly-dallying  butter- 
flies of  the  poet,  indeed!  They  are  the 
busiest  creatures  of  the  whole  woodland. 

Last  of  all  was  a  little  red  chap  that  shot 
through  the  rich  gold  of  the  sunlight  quite 
145 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

like  an  agitated  bullet,  his  motor  doing  its 
very  prettiest  with  the  muffler  off  and  both 
propellers  roaring.  Orville  Wright  could 
not  have  caught  him.  It  was  but  a  brief 
glimpse  that  I  got,  but  I  took  him  for  one 
of  the  skippers,  perhaps  the  silver-spotted, 
which  is  common  here,  though  I  have 
never  seen  one  so  early  before.  He  was 
burly,  thick-necked,  short-winged,  which 
is  characteristic  of  the  hesperids. 

I  would  be  glad  to  know  what  these 
early  butterflies  find  to  eat.  Certain  flow- 
ers are  now  in  bloom,  but  you  never  find 
a  mourning  cloak  or  a  hunter,  a  question 
mark  or  a  painted  lady  fluttering  about 
them.  The  bees  are  in  the  willow  blooms 
and  the  alder  catkins  after  pollen.  The 
maples  are  in  bloom.  You  can  find  hepat- 
icas  and  violets,  chickweed,  crocus,  snow- 
drop, and,  I  dare  say,  dandelions  in  blos- 
som, and  almost  every  day  some  new  shrub 
146 


EARLIEST    BUTTERFLIES 

or  shy  herb  sends  perfumed  invitation  out 
on  the  messenger  winds. 

Yet  I  find  April  butterflies  most  partial 
to  such  sunny  spots  as  the  ancient  corn- 
field, where  pines  and  scrub  oaks  will  give 
no  hint  of  bloom  for  weeks  to  come,  and 
only  dry  lichens  seem  to  flourish  on  the 
twig  and  chip-encumbered  earth.  Here 
the  dainty  cladonias  thrive,  the  brown- 
fruited  lifting  tiny  cups  to  the  sun,  while 
the  scarlet-crested  help  this  and  the  fringed 
variety  to  make  crisp,  tiny,  fairy  gardens 
that  wrill  show  you  great  beauty  if  you  will 
put  your  nose  to  the  earth  as  the  butterfly 
does  in  looking  at  them. 

Perhaps  these  earliest  spring  butterflies 
sip  from  brown  cups  or  draw  from  frost- 
moistened  scarlet  crests  some  potent  elixir 
which  warms  the  cockles  of  their  wee 
hearts  during  the  frigid  nights  of  our 
Massachusetts  Aprils.  I  hope  so.  I  never 
147 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

catch  them  sipping  honey  at  this  time 
from  any  of  the  recognized  sources.  Per- 
haps the  full  flow  of  sap  which  is  fairly 
bursting  the  young  limbs  of  all  trees  now 
leaks  enough  to  give  syrup  for  the  tasting, 
and  they  are  thus  more  fortunate  than 
their  brethren,  who  will  come  later  and 
dance  attendance  on  lilac  and  milkweed. 
Maple  sugar  is  better  than  honey. 

There  will  be  blossoms  enough  for  them 
in  the  little  hollow  by  and  by,  though  at 
first  it  looked  so  brown  and  sere.  Little 
by  little,  after  my  initiation  at  the  anten- 
nae of  Pyrameis  hunt  era,  I  began  to  see 
them,  a  rosette  of  green  under  my  elbow, 
perhaps,  or  a  serrate  tip  farther  on.  All 
under  the  brown  grass  the  green  rosettes 
of  biennials  and  perennials  have  waited  all 
winter  long  for  a  time  like  this.  Out  of 
the  cores  of  growth  built  with  slow  labor 

in  the  increasing  chill  of  autumn  they  are 
148 


EARLIEST    BUTTERFLIES 

now  sending  new  leaves,  one  after  another 
in  rapid  succession,  that  top  the  brown 
grasses  and  begin  to  wreathe  them  with 
the  tender  green  of  spring. 

There  is  joy  in  their  very  coloring  as 
they  stretch  up  to  meet  the  enfolding 
warmth  of  the  sun.  Here  an  early  butter- 
cup waves  a  cleft  and  somewhat  pinnate 
hand  to  me  with  jaunty  assurance,  though 
in  the  heart  of  its  cluster  is  as  yet  no  sign 
of  the  ascending  stem  that  is  to  bear  the 
glossy,  yellow  bloom  aloft.  Dandelion 
leaves  shake  their  notched  spears  all  about, 
proud  that  their  buds  are  already  visible, 
though  still  tucked  down  in  the  heart  of 
the  plant  and  showing  no  sign  of  yellow. 

Here  are  the  wee  strawberry-like  leaves 
of  the  cinquefoil,  pale  counterpart  of  the 
buttercup  to  which  it  looks  up  in  gentle 
envy  and  admiration.  The  cinquefoil  fol- 
lows hard  upon  the  heels  of  the  violet,  and 
149 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

already  its  buds  are  eager  to  be  up  and 
open.  The  linear  root  leaves  of  aster  and 
goldenrod  sit  snug  and  green,  growing  a 
bit,  but  in  no  hurry  to  appear  above  the 
brown  vegetation  of  last  year.  Their 
watch  comes  late,  and  there  is  no  reason 
for  them  to  be  stirring  thus  early.  And  so 
the  growth  of  lush  green  leaves  is  pushing 
up  all  over  the  dooryard  of  the  old-time 
settler  getting  ahead  of  the  lazy  wood 
grasses  that  have  hardly  begun  to  put 
out  tiny  spears  that  eventually  will  stab 
through  the  old  fog  and  help  the  others 
to  make  a  new  tapestry  carpet  for  the 
empty  woodland  spaces. 

Loveliest  of  all  these  now,  and,  indeed, 
the  most  germane  to  the  spot,  is  the  mul- 
lein. All  winter  long  it  has  sat  serene  and 
self-sufficient,  under  the  snow,  armor- 
encased  in  pellucid  ice,  or  in  the  bare,  bitter 
nights  when  the  stars  of  heaven  were  one 
150 


EARLIEST    BUTTERFLIES 

solid  coruscation  of  silver  and  the  still  cold 
bit  very  deep.  Clad  in  kersey  like  the 
pioneer,  its  homespun  clothing  has  defied 
the  weather,  holding  the  cold  away  from 
its  thin  leaf  with  all  this  padding  of  matted 
wool  which  makes  the  plant  seem  so  rough 
and  coarse.  In  the  summer  it  will  defy 
the  fierce  heat  of  the  July  sun  with  the 
same  armor,  sitting  here  with  its  feet  in 
the  burning  sand  and  its  tall  spike  tossing 
back  the  sunshine  with  a  laugh  from  its 
golden  efflorescence. 

Like  the  pioneer,  the  mullein  came  from 
the  Old  World,  well  fitted  to  bear  the 
rigors  and  defy  the  dangers  of  the  New. 
Like  him  it  took  root,  and  its  seed  holds 
the  land  in  the  rough  places,  brave  and 
beautiful,  though  rough-coated,  tender 
at  heart,  and  helpful  always. 

So,  when  the  sun  has  gone  over  the 
western  ridge  and  the  north  wind  scouts 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

have  again  mustered  courage  to  invade 
the  place,  I  leave  the  little  hollow  to  the 
wilderness  that  still  enfolds  dreams  of  the 
one-time  occupant.  In  its  sheltered  nooks 
some  of  the  day's  golden  warmth  will  re- 
main, even  until  the  sun  comes  again.  I 
cannot  tell  where  my  busy  butterflies  will 
spend  the  night,  but  if  I  were  one  of  them 
I  should  flip  back  into  the  dooryard  of  the 
pioneer's  homestead  and  cuddle  down  in 
the  great  heart  of  one  of  those  rosettes  of 
mullein  leaves,  there  to  slumber,  warm 
and  serene,  wrapped  to  the  eyes  in  its 
blankets  of  soft  wool. 


152 


APRIL   SHOWERS 


APRIL    SHOWERS 

nightfall  the  wind  ceased,  ashamed 
perhaps  of  its  prolonged  violence,  and  we 
felt  the  soft  presence  of  April  all  about. 
Someone  had  suddenly  wrapped  the  world 
in  a  protecting  mantle  of  perfumed 
dreams. 

Hitherto  it  had  been  struggling  to  real- 
ize spring,  succeeding  here  and  there  in- 
deed, but  always  against  cold  disfavor  and 
sullen  opposition.  Now,  in  a  breath  al- 
most, joys  and  relaxation  had  come  to  all 
out-door  creatures,  and  the  air  itself  was 
suffused  with  tears  of  relief  that  brimmed 
over  and  made  little  laughing  patterings 
on  bare  twigs  and  brown  grass.  Till  then 
we  had  had  no  green  of  spring.  The 
woodland  world  had  been  pink,  and  am- 
155 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

ber,  and  full  of  soft  yearning  of  colors  in 
hope  and  promise;  flowers  had  struggled 
bravely  forth  here  and  there,  but  they  had 
smiled  patiently  on  a  land  brown  with  pas- 
ture grass  of  last  year. 

Yet  in  a  night  the  full  warmth  of  April 
fondness  and  her  tears  of  joy  at  being 
really  home  again  changed  all  that.  Un- 
der the  patter  of  wee  showers  the  wan 
grasses  of  last  year  laid  weary  heads  upon 
the  black  earth  beneath  them  and  went  to 
sleep,  while  up  in  their  places  sprang  the 
lush  green  spears  of  this  year,  glinting 
back  a  million  joyous  facets  to  the  next 
morning's  sun  that  thus  seemed  to  sprinkle 
all  things  with  gleam  of  jewels. 

They  came  very  softly  at  first  in  the 
black  dusk,  these  April  showers,  growing 
out  of  the  air  so  close  to  my  cheek  that 
their  touch  upon  it  was  infinitely  fine  and 
soothing.  Thus  the  dew  touches  the  grass 

156 


APRIL    SHOWERS 

on  still  nights  in  summer.  To  be  alone  in 
the  pasture  on  such  a  night  is  to  become 
one  with  all  the  primal  gentleness  of  the 
universe.  I  could  feel  the  happiness  of 
the  pasture  shrubs  and  perennial  herbs 
and  germinating  annuals,  growing  now 
on  the  warm  bosom  of  mother  earth, 
tucked  away  beneath  the  perfumed  robe 
of  April  night.  " 

The  night  before  the  cold  sky  was  blown 
miles  high  in  the  air  by  the  rough  winds, 
and  the  pasture  people  sighed  and  shrank 
and  shivered.  The  night  out  of  which 
April  showers  were  to  be  born  descended 
like  a  benediction,  and  swathed  all  humble 
things  in  caressing  warmth  that  was  trem- 
ulous with  moisture  and  perfume. 

With  the  rain  came  gentle  woodland 

sprites ;  and  while  it  played  them  a  merry, 

ghostly   tune,   they  worked   in  harmony. 

They  pressed  the  wan  brown  grass  lov- 

157 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

ingly  down  and  patted  the  black  earth  over 
it  till  it  went  to  sleep.  They  pulled  lustily 
at  germinating  blades,  and  in  their  labor, 
there  under  the  darkness,  they  painted  out 
in  a  night  the  brown  of  last  year  with  the 
verdant  pigment  of  this.  They  hammered 
and  pried  at  the  tough,  varnished  outer 
husks  of  buds,  and  finally  worked  them 
open  and  began  unfolding  the  soft  yellow- 
green  of  the  young  leaves  within. 

Thus  the  tips  of  huckleberry  twigs, 
which  had  given  a  soft  shade  of  wine  red 
to  the  pasture  all  winter  long,  lost  this  tint 
and  bourgeoned  into  palest  green,  and  the 
shadbush  buds  began  to  shake  loose  their 
racemes  of  bloom.  The  little  people 
worked  in  squads,  and  showers  played 
their  merry  tunes  hither  and  yon  as  they 
labored. 

All  through  the  night  the  fresh  smell  of 
the  open  pores  of  earth  met  you  every- 
158 


APRIL    SHOWERS 

where,  and  moist  air  built  upon  this  all 
other  odors  and  carried  them  very  far. 
An  opened  kitchen  door  in  the  distance  let 
out  not  only  a  rainbow-edged  blur  of 
yellow  light,  but  the  smell  of  fresh-baked 
bread  cooling  on  the  table  before  being  put 
away  in  the  big  stone  crock  in  the  pantry 
by  some  belated  New  England  housewife. 
With  the  lullaby  roar  of  the  distant 
brook  came  the  odor  of  the  willow  blooms, 
and  with  a  shift  of  wind  the  faint  resinous 
perfume  of  the  pine  wood.  The  darkness 
which  blots  outlines  from  the  sight  leaves 
the  location  of  things  to  the  other  senses 
which  serve  faithfully.  Scent  and  sound 
are  as  apprehensive  as  sight.  Often,  walk- 
ing in  the  darkness,  one  may  feel  faintly 
the  obscure  workings  of  a  sense  which  is 
none  of  these,  whereby  he  dodges  a  tree 
trunk  or  a  fence  corner  which  he  feels  is 
there,  yet  through  none  of  the  five  ordi- 
159 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

nary    senses.      The    darkness    gives    us 
antennae. 

The  April  showers  touch  with  caressing 
fingers  the  chords  of  all  things  and  bring 
music  from  them,  each  according  to  its 
kind.  In  the  open  forest  under  deciduous 
trees  the  dead  leaves  thrummed  a  ghostly 
dirge  like  that  of  the  "  Dead  March  in 
Saul."  Winter  ghosts  marched  to  it  in 
solemn  procession  out  of  the  woodland. 
Memories  of  sleet  and  deep  snow,  ice 
storm,  and  heartbreaking  frost,  tramped 
soggily  in  sullen  procession  over  the  misty 
ridge  and  on  northward  toward  the  bar- 
ren lands  to  the  north  of  Hudson's  Bay. 
Thrilling  through  this  solemn  march  below 
I  heard  the  laughing  fantasia  of  young 
drops  upon  bourgeoning  twigs  above, 
dirge  and  ditty  softening  in  distance  to  a 
mystic  music,  a  rune  of  the  ancient  earth. 

In  the  open  pasture  the  tune  changed 
160 


APRIL    SHOWERS 

again.  It  was  there  a  chirpy  crepitation 
that  presaged  all  the  tiny,  cheerful  insects 
whose  songs  will  make  May  nights  merry. 
These,  no  doubt,  take  their  first  music 
lessons  from  the  patter  of  belated  April 
showers  on  the  grass  roofs  of  their  homes. 
But  it  was  down  on  the  pond  margin 
that  I  found  the  most  perfect  music.  Slen- 
der mists  danced  to  it,  fluttering  softly  up 
from  the  margin,  swaying  together  in  ec- 
stasy, and  floating  away  into  a  gray 
dreamland  of  delight.  It  was  the  same 
tune,  with  quaint,  syncopated  variations, 
that  the  budding  twigs  and  the  brown  pas- 
ture grasses  had  given  forth,  but  more 
sprightly  and  with  a  bell-like  tinkle  more 
clear  and  fresh  than  any  other  sound  that 
can  be  made,  this  tintinnabulation  of  fall- 
ing globules  ringing  against  their  kindred 
water. 

Every  drop  danced  into  the  air  again  on 
161 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

striking  and  in  the  mellow  glow  of  an 
obscure  twilight  I  could  see  the  surface 
stippled  with  pearly  light.  Then  through 
it  all  came  a  new  song ;  the  first  soloist  of 
the  night,  the  first  of  his  kind  of  the  season, 
thrilling  a  long,  dreamy,  heart-stirring 
cadenza  of  happiness,  the  love  call  of  the 
swamp  tree  frog. 

As  the  pattering  music  of  the  April 
showers  on  the  waiting  land  is  a  rune  of 
the  ancient  earth,  so  the  love  song  of  the 
swamp  tree  frog  dreams  down  the  years 
to  us  all  the  way  from  the  carboniferous 
age.  When  the  coal  measures  were  for- 
ests of  tree  ferns,  and  the  first  men  pad- 
dled through  steaming  shallows  in  their 
shade,  the  swamp  tree  frog  was  a  tree 
frog  indeed,  and  sang  his  soothing  song 
from  their  branches.  Since  then  he  has 
degenerated  and  has  lost  most  of  the  ad- 
hesive power  of  the  tiny  disks  on  fingers 
162  * 


APRIL    SHOWERS 

and  toes.  He  no  longer  clings  readily  to 
trees,  and  is  but  an  awkward  climber.  So, 
too,  the  webbing  between  his  toes  has 
nearly  vanished,  and  he  is  not  a  strong 
swimmer.  He  haunts  the  shallows  of  the 
swamps  and  the  sunny  pools  on  the  mar- 
gin of  the  deep  cove. 

Perhaps  he  knows  that  he  is  degenerate, 
and  that  his  safety  lies  mainly  in  silence 
and  obscurity,  for  he  sings  rarely,  except 
in  the  first  heyday  of  spring,  when  the  air 
is  full  of  soft  mists  and  warmth  that  stirs 
the  deep-lying  memories  of  the  carbonif- 
erous age.  He  is  a  beautiful  fellow, 
hardly  more  than  an  inch  long,  often  flesh- 
colored,  and  with  coppery  iris  tints  that 
should  make  the  mouths  of  frog-eating 
creatures  water.  It  is  for  desire  of  him 
I  believe  that  the  pickerel  haunt  the  veriest 
shallows  at  this  time  of  year,  where  you 
may  see  them  of  an  evening  with  their 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

back  fins  sticking  out  like  the  latticed  sails 
of  a  Chinese  junk. 

I  do  not  believe  there  is  anywhere  to  be 
heard  a  dreamier  or  more  soothing  lullaby 
than  that  sung  by  the  swamp  tree  frogs 
of  a  misty  April  night  to  the  tinkling  ac- 
companiment of  showers  pattering  upon 
the  dancing  surface  of  the  pond.  It  begins 
in  a  sigh,  swells  till  it  stirs  a  memory,  and 
dies  away  in  a  dream  of  its  own  happiness. 

All  the  warm,  soothing  night  the  swamp 
tree  frogs  sang,  and  the  showers  made 
music  for  the  laboring  sprites,  and  when 
the  morning  came  it  was  to  a  world  new 
clothed  in  all  Easter  finery.  The  raindrop 
sprites  had  beaten  and  relaid  the  pasture 
carpets  that  had  been  so  brown  with  the 
dust  of  last  year,  and  now  they  were  so 
clean  and  had  such  a  soft,  green  nap  that 
it  was  a  renewed  pleasure  to  walk  on  them. 

Green,  too,  was  the  wear  of  many  of  the 
164 


APRIL    SHOWERS 

pasture  shrubs,  and  the  fripperies  of  the 
shadbush  made  the  more  sober  ones  turn 
heads  to  look  at  her  again.  Already  she 
had  creamed  the  sage  green  of  her  delicate 
gown  with  the  white  of  opening  buds,  and 
the  berry  bushes  and  the  wild  cherry,  the 
viburnums,  and  all  the  other  early  flower- 
ing shrubs  felt  a  touch  of  their  own  com- 
ing joy  in  just  looking  at  her. 

Loveliest  of  all  these  pasture  folk  was 
the  sweet  gale.  If  you  would  know  how 
beautiful  just  catkins  can  make  a  slender, 
modest  creature  you  should  hasten  into  the 
pasture  now  and  take  note  of  her.  Until 
last  night  you  would  have  passed  her  by 
without  noting,  so  modest  and  reticent 
she  is. 

The  other  two  members  of  her-  family 
have  been  for  months  more  in  evidence. 
The  sweet  fern  keeps  some  of  her  last 
year's  leaves  still,  and  as  you  pass  tosses 

165 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

a  bouquet  of  perfume  to  you  that  you  may 
know  she  is  by.  The  bayberry  holds  blue 
candles  to  the  wind  all  winter,  and  the  in- 
cense of  them  carries  far.  But  the  sweet 
gale  is  too  modest  and  shy  for  such  things. 
She  just  sits  quiet  and  unobserved,  and 
thinks  holy  thoughts,  and  because  she  does 
so  it  seems  as  if  all  the  warmth  and  kind- 
ness of  April  sun  and  April  showers 
touched  her  first. 

The  catkins  of  the  sweet  fern  were  still 
hard  and  varnished,  and  had  not  cracked 
a  smile  this  morning  after  the  night  of 
April  showers.  Not  a  candle  of  the  bay- 
berry  had  melted  or  shown  flame  in  all 
this  softness  and  warmth,  yet  there  stood 
the  gentle  sweet  gale  all  aflame  with  soft 
amber  and  pale  gold,  a  veritable  burning 
bush  of  beauty.  There  is  no  perfume  from 
these  blossoms,  so  gently  shy  and  self- 
contained  is  the  plant.  Both  the  bayberry 
1 66 


APRIL    SHOWERS 

and  sweet  fern  will  woo  you  from  a  dis- 
tance with  rich  aroma,  but  only  after  the 
leaves  have  come,  and  then  only  if  you 
bruise  them,  will  you  get  a  message  from 
the  shy  heart  of  the  sweet  gale. 

On  such  a  morning  it  seems  as  if  all  the 
birds  were  here,  flitting  back  and  forth 
through  the  soft  blue  early  mists  and  sing- 
ing for  pure  joy  in  the  soft  air  and  gentle 
warmth.  For  the  first  time  the  robins  sang 
as  if  they  meant  it,  not  in  great  numbers, 
though  there  are  legions  of  them  here,  but 
enough  so  that  you  can  easily  forecast  the 
power  of  the  full  chorus  which  will  tune 
up  a  little  later.  Blackbirds  and  bluebirds 
caroled,  and  song  sparrows  fairly  split 
their  throats,  and  now  and  then  a  flicker 
would  sit  up  on  a  top  bough,  clear  his 
throat,  throw  out  his  chest  and  pipe  up 
"  Tucker-tucker-tucker-tucker-tucker/' 
then,  abashed  at  the  noise  he  had  made, 
167 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

go  off  on  tiptoe,  very  much  ashamed,  as 
well  he  might  be. 

Not  a  fox  sparrow  could  I  see;  I  think 
they  went  on  the  day  before,  but  a  king- 
fisher was  flying  from  cove  to  cove,  spring- 
ing that  cheerful  cry  of  his,  which  sounds 
as  if  someone  were  rattling  a  stick  on  his 
slats.  A  meadow  lark  piped  a  clear  whistle 
from  the  top  of  a  pitch  pine,  then  alter- 
nately fluttered  and  sailed  down  into  the 
grass  for  an  early  bite.  The  chipping 
sparrow  swelled  his. little  gray  throat  and 
trilled  a  homely,  contented  note,  and  there 
was  a  clamor  of  blue  jays  as  the  hour 
grew  late. 

I  find  the  blue  jay  a  lazy  chap.  No  early 
morning  revelry  is  for  him.  Breakfast  is 
a  serious  matter,  not  to  be  entered  into 
lightly  or  with  chattering.  Later  in  the 
day  he  is  apt  to  be  noisy  enough,  though 

he  never  sings  in  public.    The  nearest  he 
1 68 


There  was  a  clamor  of  blue  jays  as  the  hour  grew  late 


APRIL    SHOWERS 

ever  comes  to  it  is  when,  in  a  crowd  of 
good  fellows,  he  gives  you  an  imitation  of 
some  other  bird,  for  the  blue  jay  is  a  good 
deal  of  a  mimic.  But  it  is  always  a  bur- 
lesque, and  it  rarely  gets  beyond  the  first 
few  notes  before  a  jeering  chorus  from  his 
companions  cuts  it  off,  nor  do  you  ever 
know  whether  they  are  jeering  at  him  or 
the  bird  he  is  burlesquing.  I  fancy  it  does 
not  matter  to  them  as  long  as  they  have 
a  chance  to  jeer. 

The  crows  are  rather  silent  now,  though 
occasionally  there  is  a  dreadful  towrow 
over  a  love  affair  which  does  not  run 
smooth.  Crows  are  such  canny  Scotch- 
men of  the  woods  that  you  would  hardly 
expect  them  to  throw  caution  to  the  winds 
and  have  a  riot  and  a  duel  with  much  loud 
talk  over  a  love  affair,  but  it  does  happen. 
Among  the  pines  a  day  or  two  ago  I  heard 

a  great  screaming  and  scolding,  cries  of 
169 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

anger  and  distress,  and  then,  before  I 
could  reach  the  scene,  silence. 

When  I  got  there  all  I  saw  was  two 
crows  slipping  shamefacedly  away  behind 
the  tree  tops.  I  thought  it  merely  a  lovers' 
quarrel,  but  the  next  day  I  found  beneath 
the  pines  not  far  from  the  spot  a  handsome 
young  crow  dandy,  dead.  It  puzzled  me 
a  bit.  He  bore  no  marks  of  shot,  but  seem- 
ingly had  died  by  violence.  He  was  a 
stout  youngster  and  had  been  in  the  prime 
of  life  and  vigor.  This  morning,  when  all 
the  soft  glamor  of  the  spring  seemed  made 
for  lovers,  and  many  of  the  birds  were 
very  happy  about  it,  I  heard  another  crow 
quarrel  going  on,  and  was  mean  enough 
to  spy  on  it. 

There  was  a  lady,  very  demure,  and 
there  were  two  lovers  anything  but  de- 
mure. Neither  could  get  near  enough  to 

the  lady  to  croak  soft  words  of  love  in  her 
170 


APRIL    SHOWERS 

ear,  for  the  other  immediately  flew  at  him 
in  a  rage.  The  two  tore  about  among  the 
trees,  hurling  bad  words  at  one  another. 
It  was  distinct  profanity.  They  towered 
high  in  air  and  dove  perilously  one  after 
the  other  back  into  the  woods  again, 
screaming  reckless  oaths.  Now  and  then 
they  came  together,  and  one  or  the  other 
yelled  with  pain.  It  lasted  but  a  few  min- 
utes, but  it  was  a  very  hot  scrimmage. 
Then  one  of  them  evidently  had  enough, 
and  abandoned  the  fight,  taking  refuge  in 
a  thick  fir  very  near  me.  No  one  of  the 
three  minded  my  presence. 

The  victor  went  back  to  his  lady  love 
on  mincing  wings,  and  though  I  could  not 
see  them  I  knew  that  he  was  received  with 
open  favor,  for  the  cooing  of  cawing  that 
followed  was  positively  uncanny.  As  a 
reckless  freebooter,  a  wise  and  jovial 

latter-day  Robin  Hood  of  the  woods,  I  like 
171 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

the  crow ;  but  his  love-making  voice,  dear 
me !  One  of  Macbeth's  witches  might  ad- 
dress the  cauldron  in  the  same  tone.  Evi- 
dently the  discomfited  rival  thought  so  too, 
for  he  began  to  jaw  in  an  undertone  and 
flew  grumbling  away,  mostly  on  one  wing. 
I  have  no  direct  evidence,  of  course,  but  I 
think  my  dead  crow  came  to  his  untimely 
end  in  one  of  these  duels  between  rival 
lovers, 

I  was  glad  to  leave  the  crows  behind  me 
for  once,  and  then  in  the  full  sunshine  of 
the  later  morning  I  chanced  upon  a  tree 
full  of  goldfinches.  It  was  a  tree  full,  also, 
of  most  delightful  music.  Each  bird  was 
vying  with  the  other  in  a  spring  song  that 
was  more  in  tune  with  the  surroundings 
than  any  ever  written  by  Bach  or  Schu- 
mann, a  pure  outgiving  of  blossoming 
delight. 

The  birds  themselves  have  just  come 
172 


APRIL    SHOWERS 

into  new  bloom.  Like  the  sweet  gale  they 
seem  to  have  put  on  new  color  of  gold 
almost  in  a  night,  for  they  made  yellow 
gleams  that  were  like  blossoms  all  about 
on  the  bare  twigs,  their  black  wings  mak- 
ing the  color  more  vivid  by  contrast.  Yes- 
terday it  was,  or  was  it  the  day  before, 
that  these  lovely  singers  were  going  about 
in  sober  brown,  like  sparrows.  Now  sud- 
denly they  are  splashes  of  tropic  sunshine. 

It  is  their  mating  plumage  which  they 
will  wear  until  late  August  puts  them  in 
brown  again.  They  are  so  happy  about 
it,  and  their  rich,  variable  songs  are  such 
a  delight  that  I  am  glad  they  do  not  quit 
wooing  and  go  to  nest-building  until  late 
June,  the  latest,  I  think,  of  all  our  birds. 

And  while  I  listened  to  the  goldfinches 

a  tiny  bit  of  the  sky  fell.    It  lighted  on  a 

leaf  by  me,  and  expanded  its  wings  and 

enjoyed  the  full  sun.     It  was  one  of  the 

173 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

least  of  butterflies  and  one  of  the  loveliest, 
the  common  blue,  the  winter  form,  so 
called  because  it  comes  thus  in  April  from 
a  chrysalid  that  has  passed  the  rigors  of 
winter  successfully.  Like  the  blossoming 
sweet  gale  the  song  of  the  swamp  tree 
frog  and  the  gold  of  the  goldfinch's  plum- 
age this  tiny,  fearless  bit  of  blue  is  a  seal 
of  the  actual  soft  presence  of  the  spring, 
t  which  comes  only  when  the  April  showers 
have  made  her  calling  and  election  sure. 

To  be  sure,  we  might  have  a  whiff  of 
snow  yet,  but  it  will  be  only  the  dust  blown 
far  from  the  fleeing  feet  of  those  winter 
ghosts  now  scuffing  the  tundra  up  where 
the  Saskatchewan  empties  into  Hudson's 
Bay. 


174 


PROMISE   OF    MAY 


PROMISE   OF    MAY 

1  HE  first  touch  of  the  rose-gray  morn- 
ing air  brought  to  my  senses  suspicion  of 
two  new  delights;  one,  the  more  sensu- 
ously pleasing,  to  be  sought,  the  other  to 
be  hoped  for.  It  was  easy  to  hope  for 
things  of  such  a  morning,  for  there  come 
gracious  days  in  the  very  passing  of  April 
that  presage  all  the  seventh  heaven  of 
early  June. 

At  such  times  the  pasture  people  bestir 
themselves,  and  no  longer  march  sedately 
toward  the  full  life  of  summer,  but  begin 
to  riot  and  caper  forward.  The  old  Greek 
myth  of  fauns  dancing  on  new  green- 
sward is  not  less  than  fact;  by  May-day 
the  shrubs  caracole.  I  suspect  even  the 
cassandra  of  wiggling  its  toes  under  the 
177 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

morose  morass;  and  though  it  may  not 
outwardly  prance,  it  puts  on  the  white  of 
new  buds  as  if  it  at  least  were  coming  out 
of  mourning. 

By  sunrise  the  riot  of  the  robin  sym- 
phony had  become  a  fugue,  and  there  was 
some  chance  to  hear  the  other  birds.  I 
had  hoped  for  a  soloist  who  should  cer- 
tainly be  here.  The  coming  of  the  earlier 
bird  migrants  from  the  South  is  sometimes 
delayed  by  storms  or  forwarded  by  pleas- 
ant weather,  but  those  which  come  now 
are  almost  sure  to  appear  at  a  definite  date. 
There  are  always  Baltimore  orioles  in  the 
elms  about  my  house  on  the  morning  of 
the  eighth  day  of  May.  No  one  has  yet 
seen  one  on  the  seventh,  though  the  neigh- 
borhood takes  an  interest  in  the  matter 
and  keeps  careful  watch.  It  is  a  matter 
of  twenty-five  years  since  the  observations 

began,  and  not  yet  has  the  date  failed.    If 
178 


PROMISE    OF    MAY 

on  that  morning  I  do  not  see  the  flash  of 
an  oriole's  orange,  yellow,  and  black 
among  the  young  apple  tree  leaves,  and 
hear  that  musical  whistle,  I  shall  think 
something  has  gone  dreadfully  wrong  with 
return  tickets  from  Nicaragua. 

Of  the  brown  thrush  I  am  not  quite  so 
sure.  He  rarely  calls  on  me.  Instead,  I 
have  to  seek  him  out  on  the  first  few  days 
of  his  arrival.  He  likes  the  sprout  land 
best,  and  the  flash  of  rufous  brown  that 
you  get  from  him  as  he  flits  away  among 
the  scrub  oaks  might  well  be  the  color  of 
a  fox's  brush,  yet  there  is  no  mistaking  his 
sunrise  solo.  It  is  quite  the  most  sono- 
rously musical  bird  song  of  early  spring, 
'and  I  have  heard  it  often  on  the  twenty- 
fifth  of  April. 

I  dare  say  it  has  always  been  here  as 
early  as  that,  though  some  years  I  have 

failed  of  the  concert-room  and  so  of  the 
179 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

singer.  Always  he  is  here  by  May-day. 
This  morning  his  rich  contralto  rang  from 
a  birch  tip  in  the  pasture  where  he  or  some 
thrush  just  like  him  has  sung  each  May- 
day morning  for  I  do  not  know  how  many 
years.  I  listened  in  vain  for  the  chewink, 
though  he  too  is  due.  Like  the  brown 
thrush  he  is  a  thicket-haunting  bird,  fol- 
lowing soon  on  the  trail  of  the  fox  spar- 
row, cultivating  the  underbrush  by  claw 
as  he  does. 

There  is  no  rest  for  the  weary  brown 
leaves  of  last  year,  though  they  may  take 
passage  on  the  March  winds  to  the  inmost 
recesses  of  the  green-brier  tangle  of  the 
pasture  corners.  Through  March  and 
early  April  the  fox  sparrow  harries  them, 
and  they  have  hardly  settled  with  a  sigh 
to  a  brief  nap  in  his  trail  before  the  brown 
thrush  and  the  chewink  are  at  them  with 

bill  and  toe-nail,  and  these  are  here  for  the 
180 


PROMISE    OF    MAY 

summer.  About  a  week  later,  generally 
on  the  very  sixth  of  May,  easy  going 
mister  catbird  will  appear  with  great  pre- 
tence of  bustle.  He  is  a  thicket  bird,  too, 
but  unlike  the  chewink  and  the  brown 
thrush  his  farming  is  all  folderol.  He 
simply  potters  round  on  their  trail,  glean- 
ing. Whatever  the  thicket-bird  name  is 
for  Ruth,  that  is  his. 

There  are  sweeter  singers  in  the  spring 
woodland  than  the  brown  thrush,  but  I 
know  of  none  whose  rich  voice  carries 
so  far,  and  this  one's  rang  in  my  ears 
through  all  my  wanderings  till  the  sun  was 
high  and  the  dew  was  well  dried  off  the 
bushes.  Now  and  then  I  must  needs  for- 
get him  and  even  my  quest  in  my  joy  over 
the  fresh  beauties  that  the  shrubs  were 
putting  on,  seemingly  every  moment.  It  is 
something  to  look  at  an  olive-brown  pas- 
ture cedar  which  has  been  as  demure  as  a 
181 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

nun  all  winter  and  spring,  and  see  it  sud- 
denly in  bloom  from  head  to  foot,  as  if 
before  your  very  eyes,  coming  out  all  sun- 
clad  in  cloth  of  gold.  It  is  no  illusion  of 
the  sun's  rays  or  the  scintillation  of  the 
morning  dew,  but  a  rich  glow  of  gold  out 
of  the  sturdy  heart  of  the  plant  itself. 

Last  October  I  had  thought  nothing 
could  make  a  cedar  more  beautiful  than 
that  rich  embroidery  of  blue  beading  on 
cloth  of  olive,  which  these  Indian  children 
of  the  pasture  world  donned  for  winter 
wear.  Now  I  know  their  May  robes  to  be 
lovelier.  No  doubt  they  are  days  in  com- 
ing out,  these  tiny  blooms  of  the  pasture 
cedars,  yet  they  always  reach  the  point 
where  I  notice  them  in  a  flash.  One  mo- 
ment they  are  somber  and  sedate,  the  next 
they  are  all  dipped  in  sunshine  and  dimple 
with  a  loveliness  which  is  the  dearer  be- 
cause it  is  so  unexpected. 
182 


PROMISE    OF    MAY 

You  might  think  it  just  the  foliage  of 
the  plant  taking  on  a  livelier  tint  with  the 
coming  of  glad  weather,  and  there  is  a 
change  there,  but  that  is  only  from  brown 
to  green.  In  the  severe  cold  of  the  winter 
the  leaves  seem  to  suffer  a  decomposition 
in  the  chlorophyl  which  gives  them  their 
green  tint  and  put  on  a  winter  garb  of 
brownish  hue,  but  with  the  coming  of  the 
warm  days  the  chlorophyl  is  reformed, 
and  the  brown  is  rapidly  giving  place  to 
green  when  this  new  transformation 
flashes  on  the  scene.  Right  out  of  the 
little  green  leaf-scales  grow  thousands  of 
tiny  golden-brown  spikes  with  a  dozen 
golden  mushroom  caps  ranged  in  whorls 
of  four  about  them. 

They  are  not  more  than  an  eighth  of  an 

inch    long,    these    pollen    bearing    spikes 

which  will  presently  loose  upon  the  wind 

tiny   balloons   bearing    pollen    grains    to 

183 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

float  down  the  field  to  the  even  more  rudi- 
mentary pistillate  flower,  but  they  are  big 
enough  to  change  the  gloom  of  rocky  hill- 
sides to  a  glow  of  delight,  seemingly  in  an 
hour.  You  have  but  to  look  about  you  if 
you  will  visit  the  pasture  cedars  on  May- 
day, and  you  may  see  the  place  light  up 
with  the  change. 

There  is  no  fragrance  to  these  blooms 
other  than  the  resinous  delight  which  the 
leaves  themselves  distil  at  the  caress  of 
warm  suns.  It  was  no  odor  of  the  pasture 
cedars  which  had  given  an  object  to  my 
walk. 

The  larch  is  not  a  native  of  Massachu- 
setts, but  it  will  grow  here  fairly  well  if 
you  plant  it,  and  there  are  long  rows  of 
these  trees  by  the  roadside  on  the  way  to 
the  pasture.  These  are  all  coming  forth  in 
the  fragile  beauty  of  new  ideas.  The  larch 
is  the  mugwump  among  conifers,  dallying 
184 


PROMISE   OF   MAY 

irresolutely  Between  two  parties.  Born  a 
dyed-in-the-wool  Republican  it  has  yet  of 
late  years  leanings  toward  Democracy. 
So  it  votes  with  the  conifers  on  cones  and 
the  deciduous  trees  on  leaves. 

Sometimes  I  cut  a  larch  limb  to  see  if 
this  year  one  is  n't  turning  endogenous, 
and  am  never  sure  but  the  fruit  for  the 
new  season  will  turn  out  to  be  acorns  in- 
stead of  cones.  You  never  can  be  sure  in 
what  way  these  independents  will  surprise 
you.  It  is  lucky  the  trees  do  not  have  the 
Australian  ballot  on  what  their  year's  out- 
put shall  be.  If  they  did  there  would  be 
no  possibility  of  predicting  what  would  be 
the  larch  crop. 

As  might  be  expected,  larches  are  not 
virile  trees,  but  have  a  slender  beauty 
which  is  quite  effeminate.  Just  now  their 
this  year's  leaves  are  a  third  grown,  and 
are  very  lovely  in  their  feathery  softness, 

185 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

but  lovelier  yet  are  the  young  larch  cones, 
growing  along  the  branches,  sessile  among 
the  young  green  of  the  leaves,  translucent, 
deep  rose-pink  cameos  of  cones,  that  re- 
mind you  of  an  etherealized  tiny  pineapple, 
a  strawberry,  and  a  stiff  blossom  carved 
in  coral,  all  in  one. 

After  all,  I  am  convinced  that  the 
larches  may  do  as  they  please  about  their 
leaves,  vote  with  the  deciduous  trees  if 
they  wish  to,  and  flout  their  coniferous  an- 
cestry if  they  will,  provided  they  continue 
to  grow  yearly  on  May  first  these  most 
delectable  of  cones.  No  blossom  of  the 
year  can  show  greater  beauty. 

Baffled  in  my  search  for  the  origin  of 
the  sensuous  odor  which  had  lured  me  and 
which  seemed  still  to  drift  hither  and 
thither  on  the  variable  air,  I  got  the  canoe 
and  paddled  over  alongshore  to  a  cove  that 

I  know,  a  new-moon  shaped  hiding  place 
1 86 


PROMISE    OF    MAY 

behind  a  barrier  reef  of  rough  rocks, 
further  screened  by  brittle  willows  that 
struggle  forward  year  after  year,  waist 
deep  in  water,  bravely  endeavoring  to  be 
trees.  They  almost  succeed,  too,  in  that 
their  trunks  tower  a  modest  twenty  feet 
and  some  of  their  limbs  remain  on 
throughout  the  year.  So  brittle  are  the 
slender  twigs,  however,  that  the  least 
touch  seems  to  take  them  from  the  parent 
tree;  and  as  I  push  my  canoe  between 
them  in  a  favorable  channel  of  the  reef  I 
collect  an  armful  in  it  in  brushing  by.  It 
is  a  wonder  that  the  March  gales  have  left 
any. 

Past  the  barrier  and  afloat  on  the  slen- 
der, placid  crescent  I  found  a  new-moon 
world  with  a  life  of  its  own.  Rough  waves 
may  roll  outside,  but  only  the  gentlest  un- 
dulations crinkle  the  reflections  on  the 
mirror  surface  within.  The  winds  may 

187 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

blow,  but  rarely  a  flaw  strikes  in  far 
enough  to  ruffle  the  water.  Here,  with  the 
sun  on  my  back,  I  might  sit  quietly,  and 
soon  the  normal  life  of  the  place,  if  at  first 
disturbed  by  my  entrance,  would  go  on. 

Yet  here  is  no  drowsy  silence,  such  as 
will  fill  the  cove  with  sleep  in  August. 
Passing  April  may  leave  things  quiet,  but 
they  are  awake.  The  first  sound  which 
disturbed  this  quiet  was  a  kerplunk  at  my 
side,  followed  by  the  grating  of  a  turtle 
shell  over  rough  rock  and  a  second  plunge. 
Two  spotted  turtles  that  had  been  sunning 
themselves  on  a  rock  at  my  very  elbow  as 
I  glided  in  thus  became  submarines,  and 
slipped  silently  away  to  Ooze  Harbor  be- 
tween two  sheltering  rocks  at  bottom. 
These  two  had  been  contemplating  nature 
with  the  sun  on  their  backs,  as  I  planned 
to,  and  had  been  loth  to  leave  such  pleasant 

employment.     I  think  the  turtle's  brain 
188 


PROMISE    OF    MAY 

may  work  quickly,  but  his  motions  are  as 
slow  as  those  of  the  Federal  Government. 

Round  about  me  were  the  mangrove-like 
buttonball  bushes,  showing  no  signs  of 
green,  and  the  brown  heads  of  hardback 
and  meadow-sweet  blooms  of  last  year 
bent  over  their  own  reflections  in  the 
water.  Here  were  gray  and  brown  sack- 
cloth and  ashes.  Did  not  the  little  cove 
know  that  Lent  was  long  past?  Yes,  for 
here,  too,  were  the  maples  scattering  their 
red  blooms  all  along  the  surface;  and  as 
I  looked  again  I  saw  the  sage  green  of 
young  willow  leaves  just  pushing  out 
along  the  yellow  bark  of  those  brittle 
shoots. 

Under  the  brown  heads  of  the  Spircea 
formentosa  and  salicifolia  were  vivid 
leaves  putting  forth,  and  just  as  the  pas- 
ture cedars  seemed  to  jump  into  bloom 
before  my  eyes,  so  the  little  crescent  cove 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

seemed  to  garb  itself  in  green  as  I  looked. 
Under  water,  too,  were  all  kinds  of  succu- 
lent young  herbs  just  coming  up,  like  the 
water-parsnip,  whose  root  leaves  start  in 
the  pond  bottom,  but  which,  with  the  re- 
ceding waters  of  summer,  will  grow  rank 
in  the  mud  of  the  margin. 

A  leopard  frog  sounded  his  call  from 
the  roots  of  last  year's  reeds,  —  a  gentle 
drawl  which  has  been  compared  to  the 
sound  produced  by  tearing  stout  cotton 
cloth,  and  perhaps  that  is  as  near  as  one 
can  come  to  characterizing  it,  though  the 
sound  is  a  far  more  mellow  and  soothing 
rattle  than  that.  The  hylas  have  ceased 
their  peeping  and  the  wood  frogs  no 
longer  croak.  They  have  laid  their  eggs 
in  the  warming  waters  and  gone  up  into 
the  woods.  Hitched  to  a  twig  a  foot  be- 
neath the  surface  I  found  a  jelly-like  mass 

as  big  as  my  two  fists,  which  contained  a 
190 


PROMISE   OF    MAY 

thousand  or  so  of  the  eggs  of  the  green 
frog,  —  Rana  clamitans,  —  and  no  doubt 
those  of  the  hylas  and  wood  frogs  were  to 
be  found  nearby.  The  new-moon  cove  is 
a  famous  frog  rendezvous,  and  a  month 
from  now  the  night  there  will  be  clamor- 
ous with  the  cries  of  many  species.  You 
would  never  believe  there  were  so  many 
varieties  till  you  begin  to  hunt  them  by  ear. 
A  pair  of  robins  came  and  inspected 
their  last  year's  nest  in  a  willow  over  the 
water,  and  I  saw  there  a  left-over  king- 
bird's, still  holding  the  space,  though  the 
kingbirds  themselves  will  not  be  back  to 
claim  it  before  the  fifth  or  sixth  of  May. 
A  silent  black  and  white  creeper  slipped 
up  and  down  and  all  in  and  about  the 
shoreward  bushes,  gleaning  stealthily  and 
persistently,  always  with  a  watchful  eye 
out  for  possible  danger.  This  watchful- 
ness did  not  cease  when  the  bird  finished 
191 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

hunting  and  settled  down  for  a  noonday 
nap.  It  chose  for  this  a  spot  on  the  black 
and  white  angle  of  a  red  alder  shrub, 
where  it  would  look  exactly  like  a  knot  on 
the  wood.  Then  it  fluffed  down  into  a  fat 
ball  of  feathers  and  for  a  half-hour  seemed 
to  snooze,  motionless  except  for  its  head, 
that  every  few  seconds  turned  and  looked 
this  way  and  then  that.  It  was  a  noonday 
nap,  but  it  was  sleeping  with  both  eyes 
open. 

The  kingfisher,  always  an  example  of 
nervous  energy,  .flitted  back  and  forth 
outside  the  willow  barrier,  springing  his 
rattle  in  short  vigorous  calls.  Once  he 
fell  into  the  water  with  a  splash,  and 
came  out  again  with  a  young  white  perch 
in  his  mouth.  By  and  by  he  gave  an 
extra  shout  and  went  off  over  the  hill  and 
was  gone  an  hour.  Then  two  came  back 

and  the  air  was  vivid  with  friendly  stac- 
192 


1  he  air  was  vivid  with  friendly  staccato  calls 


PROMISE   OF   MAY 

cato  calls.  But  there  seemed  to  be  a  dis- 
agreement later,  for  after  a  little  the  first 
bird  was  alone  again.  Then  he  began  to 
fly  back  and  forth,  high  over  the  cove,  till 
his  white  throat  seemed  a  sister  to  the 
young  moon,  paper  white  in  the  zenith. 

All  the  kingfisher  calls  before  that  had 
been  brief,  but  now  as  he  flew  he  clattered 
like  an  alarm  clock,  —  the  kind  that  begins 
at  ghostly  hours  and  continues  without 
intermission  till  you  finally  get  up  in  de- 
spair and  throw  it  out  the  window.  His 
cry  would  begin  with  his  leaving  the  point 
beyond  the  cove  on  one  side,  continue  with- 
out a  break  as  he  swung  high,  and  only 
cease  when  he  had  dropped  to  earth  again 
on  the  other  side.  Where  he  got  the  wind 
for  this  continuous  vaudeville  I  cannot 
say.  I  have  never  heard  a  kingfisher  call 
so  long  without  an  interval  before,  but  I 
take  it  to  have  been  a  far  cry  sent  out  for 
193 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

that  vanished  mate.  Perhaps  she  an- 
swered finally,  for  he  betook  himself  off 
after  a  little,  I  hope  to  a  rendezvous. 

While  I  listened  in  the  silence  for  the 
returning  call  of  the  kingfisher,  a  little 
shore  wind  came  over  my  shoulder  and 
brought  to  me  the  same  delicious,  sen- 
suous perfume  that  I  had  noticed  in  the 
early  morning,  only  where  it  had  then 
been  as  slender  as  a  hope  it  was  now  rich 
and  full  with  the  joy  of  fulfilment.  I 
looked  back  in  some  wonder  at  the  rocky 
marsh  behind  the  cove,  but  now  I  saw 
farther  than  the  alders  and  maples  that 
fringed  its  edge. 

Just  as  the  golden  glow  of  the  cedars  in 
the  upland  pasture  had  seemed  to  come  all 
of  a  sudden,  as  if  turned  up  by  the  pres- 
sure of  a  button  which  made  electrical  con- 
nection, and  set  the  machinery  of  fantasy 

at  work,   so  the  inner  swamp  suddenly 
194 


PROMISE    OF   MAY 

grew  all  sun-stricken  with  the  yellow  of 
the  spicebush  bloom.  Bare  twigs  bore 
clusters  of  it  everywhere,  and  its  intoxicat- 
ing odor  thrilled  all  my  senses  with  rich 
dreams  of  June. 

So  all  this  day  of  passing  April  the  sun 
shone  in  the  placid  heart  of  the  little  cove 
with  the  full  fervor  of  summer.  The  leop- 
ard frog  throated  his  dreamy  yawn  from 
the  bog,  and  the  rich,  soft  perfume  of  the 
spicebush  seemed  to  wrap  all  the  senses  in 
longing  that  thrilled  and  disquieted  even 
while  it  lulled.  There  is  a  call  to  vaga- 
bondia  in  the  odor  of  the  spicebush,  that 
gipsy  of  the  wilder  wood,  which  finds 
ready  echo  in  the  hearts  of  us  all.  If  it 
bloomed  the  year  round  there  would  be  no 
cities. 

While  I  breathed  the  witchery  to  the 
full  there  fell  from  the  sky  above  a  gentle 
call,  a  single  bird  note  out  of  the  blue, 
195 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

that  made  me  sit  up  straight  and  look 
eagerly. 

A  swift  wing  stabbed  the  air  above  the 
tree  tops,  and  the  note  sounded  nearer. 
"  Quivit,  quivit,"  it  said  in  liquid  gentle- 
ness, and  the  first  barn  swallow  of  my 
season  slipped  down  toward  the  pond  and 
skimmed  the  surface  in  graceful  flight. 
May  is  welcome.  She  could  be  ushered  in 
by  no  sweeter  music  than  the  gentle  call  of 
the  barn  swallow,  nor  could  she  send  be- 
fore her  more  dignified  couriers  than  the 
glowing  pasture  cedars  or  more  richly  sen- 
suous odors  than  that  of  the  spicebush 
which  makes  all  the  swamps  yellow  with 
sunshine  in  her  honor. 


196 


BOG   BOGLES 


BOG   BOGLES 

A  SPIRIT  of  mystery  always  broods 
over  the  great  bog  of  Ponkapog  Pond. 
Only  occasionally  does  man  disturb  its 
quaking,  sinking  surface  with  his  foot. 
You  may  wade  all  about  on  it,  even  to  the 
edge  where  the  billowing  moss  yields  to 
the  scarcely  less  stable  pond  surface;  but 
to  do  so  in  safety  you  must  know  it  inti- 
mately, else  you  will  go  down  below,  sud- 
denly, to  become  a  nodule  in  the  peat,  and 
perhaps  be  dug  up  intact  a  thousand  years 
from  now  and  put  in  a  museum. 

Hence  man  rather  shuns  the  bog,  and  it 
has  become,  or  perhaps  I  might  better  say 
it  has  remained,  the  home  of  all  sorts  of 
shy  creatures  that  shun  man.  It  would 

not  be  surprising  if  the  little  people  that 
199 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

the  Ponkapog  Indians  knew  so  well,  the 
pukwudgies  which  were  their  fairies, 
the  little  manitous  which  were  guardian 
spirits,  and  the  fearsome  folk,  the  Indian 
bogies,  still  linger  here,  though  the  Indians 
are  long  gone. 

This  morning  in  the  lonesomest  spot  I 
thought  I  heard  speech  of  them  all,  and 
though  various  creatures  appeared  later 
and  claimed  the  voices,  it  is  to  be  believed 
that  these  merely  came  out  of  the  tall 
grass  to  go  straw  bail  for  them.  At  this 
time  of  year  you  may  reach  this  lonesomest 
spot  by  boat,  if  you  will  take  a  light  one 
with  smooth  flat  bottom  and  push  val- 
iantly through  winding  passages  where 
you  may  not  row  and  boldly  ride  over 
grassy  surfaces  that  yield  beneath  you. 

It  is  a  different  bog  edge  from  that  of 
last  summer;  a  new  world.  The  Nessea, 

which   made   wickets    of    bog-hopple    all 
200 


BOG   BOGLES 

about,  is  hardly  to  be  seen,  and  you  will 
wonder  at  the  absence  of  the  millions  of 
serried  stems  of  pickerel  weed  that  held 
the  outer  defences  with  halberds  and  made 
them  blue  with  flaunting  banners  of  the 
bog's  advance  guard. 

If  you  will  look  over  the  boat's  side  as 
you  glide  through  open  water  near  the 
edge  you  will  see  these,  lying  in  heaps, 
blades  pointing  bravely  to  seaward  almost 
a  half-fathom  deep,  slain  by  the  winter's 
cold,  indeed,  but  their  bodies  a  bulwark  on 
which  younger  warriors  will  stand  firmly 
in  the  skirmish  line  this  year.  Already  the 
slender  spears  of  these  prick  upward  out 
of  the  gray  tangle  at  bottom,  and  it  will 
not  be  long  before  they  stab  the  surface, 
eager  for  the  accolade  of  the  field  marshal 
sun. 

In  the  little  channels  up  which  you  glide 
tiny  tides  flow  back  and  forth,  driven,  no 
20 1 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

doubt,  by  the  undulations  of  the  waves  in 
the  open  pond,  and  here  through  the  dark 
depths  the  brownish  green  clusters  of 
pointed  peat-moss  roll  along  like  Russian 
tumble-weeds  driven  across  the  Dakotas 
by  prairie  winds,  to  grow  again  in  new 
soil.  On  either  side  are  island  clumps  of 
meadow  grass,  and  in  the  shallows  you 
may  see,  as  carefully  planted  as  if  by  some 
landscape  gardener  of  the  pond  bottom, 
most  wonderfully  beautiful  fairy  gardens 
of  young  water-lily  leaves. 

Out  of  the  brown  ooze  at  varied  digni- 
fied distances  apart  spring  the  slender, 
erect  stems,  some  only  a  few  inches  long, 
others  longer,  till  a  precocious  few  tickle 
the  surface  with  the  upper  rim  of  the 
rounded  leaf.  These  leaves  are  set  at 
quaint  angles  that  give  the  garden  a  perky, 
Alice-in- Wonderland  effect.  The  Welsh 

rabbit  and  the  mock  turtle  might  well  come 
202 


BOG   BOGLES 

down  these  garden  paths  hand  in  hand,  or 
the  walrus  and  the  carpenter  sit  beneath 
the  flat  shade  of  these  dado-decoration 
leaves  and  swap  poems. 

But,  after  all,  the  wonder  of  it  is  not  the 
quaint  beauty  of  the  arrangement  but  the 
bewildering  richness  of  the  coloring  of 
these  leaves.  Only  the  faintest  suggestion 
of  green  is  in  them.  Instead,  they  glow 
with  a  velvety  crimson  maroon  in  varying 
shades,  a  color  inexpressibly  soft  and  rich. 
The  blood-red  of  last  year's  cranberries 
that  form  a  floating  bead  edge  to  the  bog 
in  many  places  is  more  vivid,  but  not  so 
rich.  The  lilies  of  next  July  will  be  lovely, 
indeed,  but  never  so  sumptuously  beautiful 
or  so  full  of  quaint  delight. 

At  the  end  of  the  waterway  you  come 
to  a  barrier  of  cassandra,  which  blocks 
your  further  passage  and  half  surrounds 

you  with  a  low,  irregular  hedge.     I  fear 
203 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

I  have  misnamed  the  cassandra.  I 
thought  it  dour  and  morose ;  but  that  was 
in  late  April.  Now  it  is  early  May,  and 
by  some  trick  of  the  bog  pukwudgies  the 
gloom  of  its  still  clinging  last  year's  leaves 
is  lightened  into  a  soft  sage  green  that  is 
prim  indeed,  but  lovely  in  its  primness, 
while  all  underneath  these  leaves,  in  fes- 
toons along  the  arching  stems,  are  tiny 
white  blossoms  that  are  like  ropes  of  drip- 
ping pearls. 

Grim  and  morose,  indeed !  The  cassan- 
dra is  like  a  gentle,  pure-souled  girl  of  the 
elder  Puritans,  arrayed  for  her  coming- 
out  party,  her  primness  of  garb  only  en- 
hancing the  beauty  of  soul  that  shines 
through  it  and  finds  visible  expression  in 
the  pearls.  And  already  lovers  buzz  about 
her.  Their  cheerful  hum  is  like  the  sound 
of  soft  stringed  instruments  fanned  by  the 

warm  breeze  in  this  fairy-peopled  land  of 
204 


BOG    BOGLES 

loneliness.  Here  I  see  my  first  bumblebee 
of  the  season,  seemingly  less  dunder- 
headed  out  here  among  the  wild  blooms 
than  he  will  be  later  in  the  white  clover 
of  the  lawn. 

Perhaps  the  prim  and  definite  arrange- 
ment of  the  cassandra  blossoms,  hung  so 
close  in  long  strings  that  he  has  a  straight 
road  to  follow,  helps  keep  his  wits  about 
him.  Here  are  honeybees  a-plenty,  adding 
the  clarinet  to  his  bassoon,  and  many  a 
wild  bee,  too,  bringing  the  scintillation  of 
iridescent  thorax  or  wing,  and  his  own 
peculiar  pitch  to  the  symphony.  I  dare 
say  the  hymenopterists  know  each  bee  by 
ear  as  well  as  by  sight. 

In  this  fairy  land  of  bog  tangle  the 
hylas,  that  I  had  thought  all  through  with 
their  songs  for  the  year,  piped  in  chorus 
as  each  cloud  slipped  over  the  sun,  and 
the  leopard  frogs  yawned  throatily,  dream- 
205 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

ily,  all  about  in  the  full  sunshine.  The 
hotter  it  was  the  more  they  liked  it,  and 
in  the  brightest  part  of  the  day  they 
cut  up  the  yawns  into  brief  words  and 
phrases  which  made  a  most  language- 
like  gabble. 

Of  course  I  could  not  see  this  peace  con- 
gress of  leopard  frogs  and  can  prove  only 
that  it  sounded  like  them.  It  may  very 
well  have  been  the  pukwudgies  talking 
over  my  presence  and  wondering  if  white 
men  were  now  coming  to  oust  them  from 
their  last  stronghold  in  the  bog,  as  they 
have  driven  them  and  the  once  more  vis- 
ible Indians  from  the  rough  hills  and 
sandy  plains  about  the  pond.  Indeed,  as 
I  sat  quiet,  hour  after  hour,  in  this  minia- 
ture wilderness,  I  came  to  hear  many  a 
strange  and  unclassified  sound  that,  for  all 
I  know,  may  have  been  fay  or  frog,  ban- 
shee or  bird. 

206 


BOG   BOGLES 

I  began  to  get  glints  of  sunlight  reflect- 
ing from  grassy  islands  all  about.  It  was 
as  if  some  very  human  folk  had  held  high 
carnival  here  the  night  before  and  sown 
the  dry  spots  with  empty  black  bottles. 
But  a  second  look  showed  these  to  be 
spotted  turtles,  sitting  up  above  the  water 
level,  each  with  his  head  held  up  as  if  he 
wished  especially  to  get  the  warmth  of  the 
sun  on  his  throat.  On  such  a  day  one 
might  well  envy  the  turtle  for  having  his 
bones  all  on  the  outside.  It  is  easy  for 
him  to  let  the  spring  sunshine  into  his  very 
marrow. 

The  turtle,  in  spite  of  the  canticle  which, 
bubbling  over  with  the  enthusiastic  poetry 
of  spring,  declares  that  "  the  voice  of  the 
turtle  is  heard  in  our  land/'  is  usually 
reckoned  dumb.  The  commentators  have 
carefully  announced  that  the  turtle  men- 
tioned is  the  turtle-dove  cooing  in  the  joy 
207 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

of  springtime.  That  may  be,  but  I  do  not 
see  how  they  know,  for  the  turtle,  denied 
a  voice  by  naturalists  and  scriptural  com- 
mentators alike,  nevertheless  has  one,  and 
a  song  of  its  own. 

A  turtle,  suddenly  jolted,  will  give  a 
quaint  little  squeak  as  he  yanks  himself 
back  into  his  shell.  That  is  common 
enough,  but  this  day  there  were  two,  sit- 
ting up  on  nearby  tussocks,  that  piped  a 
musical  little  song  of  spring,  just  a  soft 
trill  that  was  eminently  frog-like  but  dis- 
tinct. I  heard  it  and  tried  at  first  to 
make  it  the  trill  of  hylas,  but  it  was 
more  of  a  trill  and  different  in  quality. 
Try  as  I  would  I  could  but  locate  this 
quaint  little  song  in  the  throats  of  the 
two  turtles.  I  carefully  scared  one  off 
his  perch  and  one  trill  ceased.  I  scared 
the  other,  and  both  voices  were  silent, 

though  here  and  there  in  the  marsh  I  could 
208 


BOG    BOGLES 

hear  others.  It  may  have  been  the  puk- 
wudgies  playing  ventriloquial  tricks  on 
me  from  the  shade  of  the  swamp  cedars 
just  beyond,  and  laughing  in  their  beaded 
sleeves  at  the  joke ;  but  if  it  was  not  they, 
I  am  convinced  that  my  turtles  sang,  and 
that  Solomon  not  only  knew  what  he  was 
talking  about  but  meant  exactly  what  he 
said. 

While  I  was  listening  to  the  two  turtles 
and  wondering  about  them,  I  kept  hearing 
over  among  the  white  cedars  raucous  pro- 
fanity of  the  most  outrageous  sort.  Bad 
words  snarled  in  throaty  squawks  came 
oftener  and  oftener,  till  by  the  time  the 
turtles  had  gone  down  into  oblivion  be- 
neath the  bog  roots  the  most  villainous 
language  from  at  least  two  squawkers 
gave  evidence  that  a  low-bred  row  was 
going  on.  I  could  distinguish  accusation 

and  recrimination  till  it  sounded  like  a 
209 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

family  quarrel  between  drunken  bog 
bogles. 

Then  there  was  the  sound  of  blows,  and 
with  a  wild  shriek  of  a  most  reckless  word 
a  bittern  flapped  out,  whirled  round  once 
or  twice  as  if  undecided  where  he  would  go, 
then  dropped  in  the  grass  down  the  bog  a 
way.  Here  he  turned  his  black,  stake- 
like  head  this  way  and  that  for  a  moment, 
then  pulled  it  down  out  of  sight.  I  had 
known  the  bittern  was  misanthropic,  but 
I  had  never  before  realized  that  he  was  so 
ill-tempered  and  profane.  I  am  positive 
he  was  beating  his  wife,  and  the  whole 
affair  sounded  like  a  case  of  too  much  bog 
whiskey. 

For  an  hour  there  was  no  sight  or  sound 
of  this  bittern,  though  uncouth  conversa- 
tion seemed  to  be  going  on  still  in  the 
tangle  whence  he  flew,  but  I  'heard  no  more 

profanity.    Yet  out  of  the  heart  of  the  bog 
210 


BOG    BOGLES 

curious  sounds  came  floating  at  intervals, 
—  sounds  which  often  I  had  difficulty  in 
getting  any  known  creature  to  go  bail  for. 
I  do  not  mean  the  ordinary  bird  voices, 
though  the  air  was  full  of  these.  It  seems 
as  if  all  the  small  migrants  made  this  a 
port  of  call  or  a  refuge,  and  paid  for  their 
safety  with  music.  Warblers  trilled  their 
varied  notes  from  the  cedars  or  the  thicket 
of  cassandra  shrubs,  some  coming  boldly 
near,  others  giving  sign  of  their  presence 
only  by  the  glint  of  a  wing  or  the  shak- 
ing of  a  twig,  others  still  invisible  but 
vocal. 

Thrush  and  catbird,  song  sparrow  and 
chipping  sparrow,  chickadee  and  creeper, 
all  helped  to  fill  the  air  with  sound,  but  it 
was  not  to  these  I  listened.  It  was  rather 
to  obscure  whinings  and  grumblings  out 
of  the  deep  heart  of  the  bog,  goblin  talk 

very  likely  that  seemed  to  grow  louder  and 
211 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

come  nearer.  Then  after  a  little  I  heard 
splashing,  and  out  into  a  clear  space  of 
grassy  shallows  came  a  splendid  great 
muskrat  followed  by  another  just  as  large. 
In  the  middle  of  this  tourney  ground  the 
two  faced  each  other,  and  after  a  second 
of  sparring  closed. 

It  was  hardly  a  scientific  fight.  They 
batted  and  clawed,  butted  and  scratched 
and  bit,  whining  like  eager  dogs,  and  now 
and  then  yelping  with  pain.  But  it  was 
effective;  in  a  very  few  minutes  one  had 
enough  and  turned  and  fled,  ploughing  a 
straight  furrow  through  the  shallows,  to 
a  plunge  in  a  deep  hole.  The  victor  fol- 
lowed a  few  yards,  then  as  if  convinced 
that  the  retreat  was  a  real  one,  turned  and 
went  proudly  back,  probably  to  the  lady 
who  was  the  cause  of  all  this  trouble. 
Muskrats  are  such  gentle  creatures  that 

I  was  amazed  to  see  this  happen,  but  af- 
212 


BOG   BOGLES 

fairs  of  the  heart  are  serious  even  in  the 
depths  of  the  bog.  I  lay  a  part  of  the  bog 
bogle  talk  which  still  went  on  in  the  eerie 
depths  behind  the  green  of  the  cedars  to 
the  other  muskrats.  It  does  not  seem  as  if 
they  could  have  been  to  blame  for  it  all. 

Then  I  remembered  the  vanished  bit- 
tern and  began  to  work  my  boat  toward 
the  part  of  the  bog  where  he  disappeared. 
Very  likely  he  had  committed  suicide  in 
repentance  for  his  bad  behavior  and  his 
profanity.  He  ought  to  have,  but  he  was 
simply  sulking,  after  all.  I  think  he  felt 
so  bad  about  it  that  his  usual  wariness  was 
at  fault,  for  I  was  almost  upon  him  before 
he  saw  me.  It  may  have  been  drunken 
stupor,  but  I  like  to  believe  it  was  remorse. 

When  he  did  see  me  his  dismay  was 
ludicrous.  He  almost  fell  over  himself  in 
getting  into  the  air,  and  he  flapped  back 

toward  the  spot  where  the  quarrel  had 
213 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

gone  on  with  wild  squawks  that  said 
"  Help,  help !  "  as  plainly  as  any  language 
could.  Out  from  among  the  cedars,  in 
answer  to  this  frenzied  appeal,  came  the 
other  bittern,  and  then  another.  I  watched 
the  three  flapping  down  the  bog  and  saw 
them  light  together  at  a  safe  distance. 
Then  I  knew  the  cause  of  all  the  trouble 
in  the  bittern  family.  The  bog  world,  like 
the  pasture  world  and  the  deep  wood,  at 
this  time  of  year  is  full  of  blissful  love 
making,  but  it  is  also  full  of  heartrending 
jealousies  and  fights  to  a  finish.  No  won- 
der the  pukwudgies  and  bog  bogles  are 
full  of  talk  and  excitement  back  there; 
there  is  enough  food  for  gossip. 

Sitting  quietly  in  the  boat  in  this  new 
part  of  the  bog  I  had  a  queer  feeling  of 
being  grimly  watched  by,  I  could  not  tell 
what.  I  have  read  tales  of  travelers  in 

African  jungles  who  felt  the  eyes  of  a 
214 


BOG   BOGLES 

lurking  boa  constrictor  resting  balefully 
on  them  when  the  creature  itself  was  con- 
cealed. It  was  something  like  that,  and 
I  looked  about  rather  uneasily.  Probably 
the  bog  voices  were  getting  on  my  nerves 
and  it  was  time  to  go  home.  Then  I 
glanced  over  one  side  of  the  boat  and 
very  nearly  jumped  over  the  other,  for 
there  were  the  two  grim  eyes,  in  a  great 
horny  head  as  big  as  my  two  fists,  look- 
ing up  at  me. 

I  had  been  amusing  myself  with  imag- 
ining that  I  heard  the  little  people  of  the 
bog,  but  here  was  the  great  dragon,  the 
very  devil  himself,  sunning  his  black  hulk 
on  a  fairy  acre  of  bog  grass.  At  its 
further  end  I  saw  his  tail,  as  large  as  my 
forearm  at  the  base,  tapering  with  alli- 
gator-like corrugations  to  its  tip.  I  saw 
his  great  webbed  feet  as  large  as  my  hand 
and  furnished  with  claws.  I  saw  his  thick 
215 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

neck,  and  that  was  all  of  him  in  sight. 
The  rest  was  concealed  within  a  huge 
mound  of  black,  plated,  horny  shell  that 
was  fourteen  inches  from  side  to  side  and 
sixteen  inches  from  front  to  back.  These 
were  measurements  which  I  took  after  I 
had  decided  that  he  did  not  intend  to  eat 
me  right  away,  perhaps  not  at  all. 

Chelydra  serpentina,  the  snapping  tur- 
tle, or  the  alligator  snapper,  as  he  is  some- 
times called,  and  with  reason,  for,  except 
for  his  casing  of  shell,  he  is  very  like  an 
alligator,  is  not  uncommon  in  the  bog; 
but  I  had  never  before  seen  so  huge  or  so 
ancient  appearing  a  specimen.  His  black 
shell  was  worn  gray  with  age  and  bore 
two  deep  scars  where  some  sharp  instru- 
ment very  like  a  spear  had  been  jabbed 
into  his  back.  I  suspect  this  to  have  been 
an  Indian  spear,  and  I  fully  believe  that 

my  black  dragon  of  the  bog  was  a  well- 
216 


BOG   BOGLES 

grown  turtle  before  the  white  man  ever 
saw  Ponkapog  Pond. 

There  were  parallel  ridges  in  the  struc- 
ture of  his  shell  that  seemed  to  show  much 
wear  as  if  this  turtle  had  carried  weight 
on  his  back.  The  Indians  have  a  legend 
that  the  world  itself  is  held  up  on  the  back 
of  a  great  turtle.  Very  well;  this  is  the 
one.  I  saw  the  marks  of  its  friction  on 
his  great  muddy  black  structure  as  I 
looked  him  over,  there  in  the  middle  of  the 
loneliest  place  in  the  bog. 

I  might  have  taken  him  by  that  alligator 
tail  and  swung  his  seventy  or  eighty 
pounds  into  the  boat,  I  suppose.  Terrapin 
is  valuable,  and  the  snapping  turtle  is  own 
cousin  to  the  terrapin.  I  have  a  fancy, 
though,  that  if  he  had  got  into  the  boat 
I  should  have  got  out.  No  ordinary  Pon- 
kapog boat  was  likely  to  hold  us  both,  and 

I  wisely  refrained.    Nor  did  he  molest  me, 
217 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

but  stood  his  ground,  still  gazing  at  me 
with  that  cold,  critical  eye.  After  a  time 
he  moved  on,  pushing  his  great  weight 
with  ease  over  the  crushed  bog  growth 
and  sliding  with  dignity  down  into  the 
muddy  depths  of  an  open  channel. 

For  myself,  I  turned  the  boat's  prow 
toward  the  distant  landing  and  pushed,  as 
he  had,  over  the  yielding  shallows  to  the 
open  pond.  I  had  seen  a  hundred  beauties 
in  the  lonely  bog  and  been  well  initiated 
into  its  mysteries.  For  me  the  spotted 
turtles  had  sung,  the  muskrats  had  fought 
a  tourney,  the  bitterns  had  voiced  a  family 
quarrel.  And  now  it  was  nightfall,  and 
the  big  old  dragon  of  the  bog  had  looked 
me  over  with  measuring  eye.  It  was  high 
time  that  I  headed  for  home  if  I  expected 
to  get  there. 


218 


BOBBING   FOR    EELS 


BOBBING   FOR   EELS 

is  fortunate  that  the  angleworm  is 
born  without  a  voice,  else  throughout  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  land  were  now 
resounding  a  chorus  of  doleful  shrieks,  for 
great  is  the  dismemberment  of  angle- 
worms about  this  time.  The  same  warmth 
of  imminent  summer  which  made  the 
grass  jump  six  inches  in  length  over  night, 
has  brought  him  forth  in  great  numbers, 
over  night  also,  for  the  anglew7orm  is  a 
lover  of  darkness. 

I  know  Darwin  thought  earthworm  a 
more  proper  designation  of  him,  but  it  is 
to  be  believed  that  Darwin  was  not  a 
fisherman.  Had  he  been  he  would  have 
known  that  the  chief  end  of  worm  is  to 

become  bait.     There  may  be  nicer  things 
221 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

to  have  than  these  somewhat  attenuated 
hermits  of  the  mold,  but  if  there  are  the 
fishes  do  not  know  it,  and  there  are  few 
anglers  but  on  May  fifteenth  would  give 
their  weight  in  gold  for  them  if  such  was 
the  price.  It  is  fortunate,  therefore,  that 
angleworms  are  inhabitants  of  the  earth, 
so  to  speak,  and  not  of  any  one  neighbor- 
hood. It  is,  no  doubt,  possible  to  catch 
fish  with  other  bait.  There  are  grass- 
hoppers, to  be  sure,  though  not  at  this  time 
of  year.  There  are  various  artificial  flies 
and  lures,  spoon  hooks  and  other  wastrel 
inventions.  Of  these  little  is  to  be  said; 
indeed,  some  of  them  are  unspeakable. 

On  fortunate  springs  April  showers 
linger  into  May,  finally  hastening  north- 
ward lest  summer  catch  them  here  and 
make  a  wet  June  of  it.  The  seductive 
warmth  of  summer  is  in  them  now,  and 

as  they  go  spilling  by  of  perfumed  nights 
222 


BOBBING   FOR    EELS 

they  work  all  kinds  of  wonder.  Things 
that  were  beginning  to  grow  up  suddenly 
blow  up.  My  cherry  tree  has  exploded 
over  night.  Two  days  ago  the  grass,  we 
noted  with  delight,  was  really  quite  green. 
This  morning  it  waves  in  the  wind,  and 
I  am  confident  that  by  to-morrow,  at  this 
rate,  it  will  be  full  of  bobolinks  and  mow- 
ing machines.  Yesterday  you  could  see 
far  through  the  woodland.  To-day  it  is 
clouded  with  its  own  green  leaves,  and 
along  aisles  that  begin  to  be  shady  the 
truant  ovenbirds  are  shouting  "  Teacher, 
teacher,  teacher,  teacher,"  in  warning  to 
one  another  every  time  they  hear  a  human 
footfall  in  the  path. 

The  first  dragon  flies  have  come,  and  in 
woodland  places  lovely  little  brown  butter- 
flies skip  about  like  mad.  No  wonder  the 
Hesperidse  are  commonly  known  as  skip- 
pers. These  that  I  saw  to-day,  most  of 
223 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

them  Thanaos  brizo,  the  sleepy  dusky- 
wing,  defied  any  but  the  most  alert  eye  to 
follow  them  as  they  dashed  from  invisi- 
bility on  some  dark  fallen  limb  to  vanish- 
ment on  brown  mud  of  the  path.  They 
seemed  to  skip  in  and  out  of  existence  at 
will.  I  call  them  brown,  for  you  will  see 
that  they  are  that  if  you  have  a  chance  to 
see  one  sitting  at  rest.  You  may  get  near 
enough  to  see  the  beautiful  blueish  spots 
surrounded  with  dark  rings  on  the  fore 
wings,  and  the  double  row  of  yellow  spots 
on  the  hind  wings.  For  all  that  Thanaos 
brizo  is  as  black  as  your  hat  to  the  eye 
when  he  is  in  flight.  Perhaps  that  is  why 
he  vanishes  so  readily.  You  are  looking 
for  a  black  butterfly,  and  what  you  see  is 
nothing  but  a  brown  bit  of  bark  or  leaf. 

Darwin  was  convinced  that  the  earth- 
worm, as  he  called  him,  was  of  inestimable 

value  to  man,  and  he  cites  how  he  works 
224 


BOBBING    FOR    EELS 

over  the  mold  and  loosens  it  up,  plough- 
ing it,  as  it  were,  for  future  planters  who 
should  thus  be  able  to  enjoy  the  fruits  of 
the  earth,  leveling  it  and  working  in 
various  ways  for  the  good  of  mankind. 
But  Darwin  never  says  a  word  of  the  in- 
estimable value  of  earthworms  as  angle- 
worms. Thus  often  do  our  greatest  sci- 
entists fail  to  interpret  things  at  their 
true  value.  Very  likely  Darwin  never  had 
an  opportunity  to  bob  for  eels  in  a  New 
England  pond.  If  so  he  would  have  seen 
worms  as  they  are,  for  no  man  can  really 
know  things  till  he  has  yearned  for  them. 

In  the  winter  time  the  angleworm  goes 
down  well  below  the  reach  of  frost  which 
will  kill  him.  Indeed,  he  is  sensitive  to 
the  cold,  and  comes  to  the  surface  only 
when  the  sun  has  warmed  the  earth  so  that 
it  is  comfortable.  Under  the  May  moon 

he  comes,  sometimes  clear  out  of  his  hole, 

225 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

and  wanders  far  in  search  of  friends  or 
new  countries.  Often  of  a  moist  early 
morning  you  may  find  big  ones  caught  out 
on  the  concrete  sidewalk  or  marooned  in 
the  dry  dust  of  the  road,  remaining  to  be 
an  easy  prey  for  early  birds. 

But  these  are  the  adventurous  or  un- 
fortunate few.  The  many  have  remained 
all  night  stretched  far  from  the  mouths  of 
their  burrows,  indeed,  but  with  tails  still 
hooked  into  the  door  jamb,  and  able  to 
make  a  rapid  backward  scramble  into 
safety.  It  is  this  habit  of  the  worm  of 
warm  summer  evenings  that  the  wise 
angler  utilizes  for  his  capture.  The  robin 
knows  it  too,  and  he  spices  his  rapture  of 
matin  song  with  trips  across  the  lawn, 
where,  between  staccato  hops,  he  eyes  the 
grass  sidewise  and  catches  late  roisterers 
before  they  can  get  under  cover.  These 

he  takes  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck,  as  one 
226 


BOBBING    FOR    EELS 

might  say,  hauls  them,  stretching  and  re- 
sisting, forth  from  their  homes  and  swal- 
lows them. 

Thus  with  the  unrighteous,  but  even  the 
upright,  or  rather  the  downright,  who  are 
that,  snugly  ensconced  as  they  intended  to 
be,  he  is  apt  to  see  and  seize,  for  the 
robin's  eye  is  good  and  his  bill  is  long 
enough.  Angleworms,  after  the  joys  or 
labors  of  the  night  are  over,  withdraw 
into  their  holes,  but  often  not  very  far. 
They  like  to  lie  with  the  head  drawn  back 
just  out  of  sight,  near  enough  to  the  sur- 
face to  bask  in  the  warmth  of  the  sun. 

Some  line  the  outer  ends  of  their  bur- 
rows' with  leaves  to  keep  them  from  the 
damp  of  the  earth,  thus  further  to  enjoy 
themselves.  Some,  too,  on  retiring,  draw 
leaves  and  sticks  in,  thus  going  into  their 
holes  and  pulling  the  holes  in  after  them, 

as  the  saying  goes.     Some  merely  pile 
227 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

small  stones  in  a  sort  of  an  ant  heap  about 
the  mouth.  In  the  gravel  walk  these  little 
mounds  are  often  taken  for  those  piled  by 
the  industrious  ants.  The  robin  gets  many 
of  these  as  he  hops,  and  it  is  no  wonder 
that  his  chestnut-red  front  looms  as  round 
as  a  pumpkin  and  almost  as  big. 

There  are  many  ways  of  getting  angle- 
worms and  many  ways  of  using  them  after 
you  get  them;  but  he  who  wants  them  in 
bulk  will  do  well  to  imitate  the  robin, — 
only  do  it  in  the  night  instead  of  the  day. 
Of  course  you  may  go  out  with  a  spade 
and  assault  likely  spots  in  the  garden. 
That  is  -often  satisfactory,  though  crude. 
It  is  likely  to  result  in  small  numbers  and 
not  well  assorted  sizes. 

I  knew  a  man  once  who  used  to  jab  for 
angleworms  with  a  crowbar,  and  it  was 
a  rather  astonishing  thing  to  watch  him 

and    see   the   results.      The  angleworm's 
228 


BOBBING   FOR    EELS 

hearing  is  crude  in  the  extreme.  Indeed, 
hearing  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word 
he  has  none.  Mary  Garden  might  sing  at 
the  mouth  of -his  burrow  and  he  would 
never  know  it.  Sousa's  finest  march  on 
fifty  instruments  —  count  'em  fifty  —  might 
be  played  on  the  bandstand  just  over  his 
head  and  he  would  never  feel  one  thrill. 
The  only  sound  he  gets  is  a  crunching  and 
grubbing  in  the  earth  near  him.  This  he 
feels,  for  he  is  the  chief  food  of  the  grub- 
bing mole,  and  that  sound  means  but  one 
thing  to  him,  —  that  he  is  being  dug  for. 
So  when  he  heard  that  crowbar  wriggling 
and  crunching  in  the  gravel  beneath  he 
used  to  flee  to  the  surface  in  numbers. 

This  man  always  whistled  an  eerie  little 
tune  while  he  wriggled  the  bar.  He  said 
he  was  calling  them,  and  it  was  quite  like 
magic  the  way  in  which  they  hustled  to  the 

surface  and  crawled  about  his  feet.    Most 
229 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

people  fail  in  this  method.  It  takes  a 
peculiar  motion  to  the  bar  and  a  good  eye 
in  choosing  the  spot  where  the  worms  are. 
And  then,  few  people  know  the  tune. 

Nightfall  and  the  robin's  method  are 
best.  Wait  till  the  full  darkness  of  a  moist 
night.  Hang  a  lantern  about  your  neck 
and  get  down  on  your  marrow  bones  by 
a  grassy  roadside.  Worms  do  not  see, 
and  are  not  sensitive  to  light.  You  have 
but  to  crawl  quietly  forward  and  pick 
them  up  with  a  quick  snatch,  for  the  worm 
can  feel,  and  he  gets  back  into  his  burrow 
with  an  agility  which  is  surprising. 

On  the  right  kind  of  a  May  night  I  have 
seen  the  roadside  of  a  Massachusetts  vil- 
lage the  scene  of  more  than  one  such  spec- 
tacle. A  stranger  from  the  big  world, 
seeing  a  very  fat  man  crawling  by  the  road- 
side with  a  lantern  hung  about  his  neck, 

making  frantic  dabs  here  and  there,  and 
230 


BOBBING   FOR    EELS 

hauling  forth  great  worms  that  resisted 
and  hung  on  valiantly  and  stretched  like 
red  rubber,  might  well  have  said  that  here 
was  voodoo  worship  or  a  Dickey  initiate 
gone  mad.  But  it  was  nothing  of  the  sort, 
—  merely  the  crack  local  fisherman  get- 
ting his  bait. 

I  have  looked  in  vain  in  Izaak  Walton 
for  a  paean  on  angleworms  or  a  descrip- 
tion of  a  proper  method  for  making  a  bob 
for  eels,  and  I  thereby  find  the  "  Compleat 
Angler "  incomplete.  However,  Izaak 
was  an  admirable  fisherman  in  the  rather 
patient  and  conservative  way  of  the  Eng- 
land of  his  time.  He  advises  to  bait  for 
eels  "  with  a  little,  a  very  little,  lamphrey, 
which  some  call  a  pride,  and  may  in  the 
hot  months  be  found  many  of  them  in  the 
river  Thames,  and  in  many  mud-heaps  in 
other  rivers ;  yea,  almost  as  usually  as  one 

finds  worms  in  a  dung-hill." 
231 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

He  should  have  seen  a  Yankee  catch 
eels  with  a  pole  and  line  with  a  big  wad 
of  worms  tied  on  the  end  of  the  line  and 
no  hook  at  all,  for  such  is  a  "  bob,"  as  we 
know  it  in  Norfolk  County.  The  making 
of  a  bob  is  not  a  pleasant  affair  for  the 
angleworms,  which  seem  born  for  de- 
struction, so  many  are  the  creatures  that 
prey  on  them,  and  I  am  glad  of  Darwin's 
assurance  that,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
they  wriggle  when  rent,  they  have  little 
fineness  of  perception  and  feeling  and  do 
not  suffer  —  much. 

This  crack  fisherman  who  was  so  stout 
and  who  used  to  get  his  bait  by  lantern 
light  at  night,  to  whom  my  memory  runs, 
always  made  a  bob  of  shoemaker's  thread, 
because  it  was  fine  and  of  great  strength. 
He  had  a  long  wire  needle  like  an  uphol- 
sterer's needle,  and  with  this  he  would 

deftly    string    great    angleworms    from 
232 


BOBBING   FOR    EELS 

head  to  tail,  sliding  them  one  by  one  down 
upon  his  shoemaker's  thread  till  he  had 
a  rope  of  them  twelve  feet  long  or  so. 
Then  tying  the  ends  together  he  looped 
this  up  till  it  hung  in  a  wad  of  loops  as 
big  as  his  two  fists.  This,  hung  upon  the 
end  of  his  line,  was  all  he  needed  for  a 
night's  fishing. 

The  way  of  its  use  is  this.  First  catch 
your  night,  one  of  those  nights  when  there 
is  a  promise  of  soft  rain  in  the  sky  and  the 
wind  that  is  to. bring  it  just  sighs  gently 
over  the  trees  from  the  southward.  Too 
much  wind  is  bad,  for  it  so  ruffles  the  sur- 
face that  the  fish  cannot  find  you.  A  very 
gentle  ripple,  on  the  contrary,  is  helpful, 
for  it  makes  a  dancing  path  of  light  from 
your  fire,  up  which  the  eels  may  trail  you 
to  the  very  spot  where  hangs  the  bob. 

The  stout  fisherman  used  to  take  along 
at  least  two  boys  who  would  be  useful  in 
233 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

gathering  wood  for  the  fire  and  in  other 
matters.  Then,  picking  the  exactly  most 
favorable  spot  on  the  dam  where  the  deep, 
dark  water  shoulders  the  bank,  he  built 
his  fire  after  the  full  darkness  had  come. 
In  common  with  many  others  I  regret  the 
passing  of  the  old-time  cedar  rail  fence. 
Wire  abominations  may  be  cheaper,  but 
who  ever  heard  of  building  a  fishing  fire 
out  of  tariff-nurtured,  wire-trust,  fencing 
material?  Fishing  fire  material  of  the 
proper  sort  is  rare  nowadays,  and  I  can 
but  feel  that  the  youth  of  the  present  gen- 
eration are  born  to  barren  years. 

With  the  fire  well  alight  and  the  deep 
half-bushel  basket  placed  handy  by,  the 
fisherman  would  make  his  line  fast  to  the 
tip  of  that  long,  light,  supple  but  strong 
birch  pole  and  cast  the  big  bob  far  from 
him  with  a  generous  splash  into  the  water, 
letting  it  sink  till  within  a  foot  or  two  of 
234 


BOBBING   FOR    EELS 

bottom.  How  far  under  the  dark  water 
the  eels  might  see  that  flickering  fire  and 
be  drawn  to  it  as  moths  circle  about  a  light 
at  night  I  cannot  say,  but  I  think  it  was 
very  far,  for  on  favorable  nights  it  seemed 
as  if  all  the  eels  in  the  pond  must  have 
been  drawn  thither.  I  know  that  fishing 
without  a  fire  you  may  catch  one  eel  or 
perhaps  two,  but  you  will  never  get  such 
numbers  as  come  to  a  proper  blaze  made 
of  the  dryest  of  good  old  cedar  rails. 

In  South  American  waters  there  is  an 
electric  eel  which  can  give  a  stout  shock 
to  such  as  touch  him;  but  I  think  all  eels 
must  be  electric,  else  why  the  shock  that 
one  in  the  deep  water  off  the  pond  bank 
can  send  through  a  dozen  feet  of  line  and 
as  much  more  of  birch  pole  to  your  hand 
the  moment  he  pokes  his  nose  against  a 
bob?  It  tingles  in  your  palms,  and  is  as 
good  as  prescribed  electric  treatment  from 
235 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

a  battery,  for  it  thrills  you  with  a  quick- 
ening of  life  and  nerve  and  a  magical 
alertness. 

The  eel  is  not  nearly  so  cautious  with  a 
bob  as  with  a  hook.  He  nibbles,  which  is 
the  first  shock ;  he  bites,  which  is  the  sec- 
ond and  stronger ;  then  he  takes  hold.  I 
can  see  the  stout  fisherman  now  with  the 
fire  gleam  on  his  rugged  face,  his  feet 
planted  wide  apart  and  his  weight  well  on 
the  hinder  one,  his  hands  wide  apart  on 
the  pole  and  his  whole  attitude  that  of  a 
lion  couchant  for  a  back  somersault. 

At  the  nibble  his  face  twitches,  at  the 
bite  his  knee  bends,  and  then  the  end  of 
the  pole  sags  quickly  downward  with  the 
line  as  taut  as  a  violin  string.  The  eel  has 
taken  hold,  his  throat-pointing  teeth  are 
tangled  in  the  thread  of  the  bob,  and 
the  stout  fisherman's  weight  has  gone 

far  back  of  his  point  of  support.     If  the 
236 


BOBBING   FOR    EELS 

line  should  break  so  would  the  fisherman's 
neck. 

They  prate  much  to  me  about  the  stance 
and  the  swing,  the  addressing  and  the  fol- 
lowing through  in  driving  a  ball  at  golf. 
The  words  are  used  glibly,  but  I  doubt  if 
many  know  their  real  significance.  What- 
ever that  is  it  all  applies,  and  more,  to  the 
proper  bobbing  of  an  eel.  It  is  the  sum- 
moning of  all  the  forces  of  a  man's  vigor 
and  personality  in  one  supreme  stroke. 
Holding  on,  quite  literally  by  the  skin  of 
his  teeth,  the  eel  circles  a  section  of  the 
pond  with  his  tail  and  seems  to  lift  it  with 
him.  The  line  sings  and  the  birch  pole 
bends  nearly  double.  It  is  for  a  second 
a  question  which  will  win,  but  the  shoe- 
maker's thread  is  very  strong,  and  so  is 
the  stout  fisherman. 

Suddenly  the  eel  gives  up.  Still  hung" 
to  the  bob  he  shoots  into  the  air  the  full 
237 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

length  of  the  line,  describes  a  circle  in 
high  heaven,  of  which  the  fisherman's  feet 
are  the  center,  and  drops  in  the  grass, 
while  the  fisherman,  in  marvelous  defi- 
ance of  all  laws  of  gravity,  brings  his  two 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds  back  to  an  up- 
right position  without  losing  his  footing. 
Golf  may  be  all  very  well,  but  it  does  not 
equal  this.  Small  blame  to  the  fisherman 
if  he  poises  a  moment  like  Ajax  defying 
the  lightning. 

Now,  the  boys  have  their  innings. 
Somewhere  in  classic  literature  the  As- 
syrian came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold. 
So  the  boys  upon  the  eel  that  flops  might- 
ily and  wriggles  in  vain  in  the  tall  grass. 
He  is  dumped  in  the  deep  basket;  and 
hardly  is  he  there  before  the  fisherman  has 
swung  another  in  that  mighty  circle.  An 
eel  is  very  canny,  and  often  escapes  a  hook 

even  when  well  on.    I  never  knew  one  to 
238 


BOBBING   FOR    EELS 

get  away  from  a  bob.  Sometimes  the  half- 
bushel  basket  would  go  back  home  nearly 
full  of  them.  And  as  for  their  size,  I  do 
not  wish  to  say,  except  that  no  small  ones 
seem  to  bite  at  a  bob.  In  that  I  will  quote 
from  Izaak  Walton,  who,  after  giving  ex- 
cellent directions  for  dressing  and  cooking 
an  eel,  says: 

"  When  I  go  to  dress  an  Eel  thus  I  wish 
he  were  as  long  and  as  big  as  that  which 
was  caught  in  Peterborough  River  in  the 
year  1667,  which  was  a  yard  and  three- 
quarters  long."  To  which  I  can  but  add 
that  I  defy  old  England  to  produce  any 
bigger  eels  than  we  have  in  New  England. 


239 


THE  VANISHING  NIGHT  HERONS 


THE  VANISHING  NIGHT  HERONS 

IT  is  a  long  time  since  I  have  set  eyes,  in 
broad  daylight,  upon  the  black-crowned 
night  heron,  often  known  as  "  quawk," 
and  otherwise  derisively  named  by  the 
impuritans.  The  scientists  have  also,  it 
seems  to  me,  joined  in  this  derision,  for 
they  have  dubbed  him  Nycticorax  nycti- 
corax  ncevius,  which  is  a  libel  on  his  lan- 
guage. At  any  rate,  it  sounds  like  it.  The 
roots  are  evidently  the  same. 

Yesterday,  however,  in  broad  daylight, 
I  saw  two  pair  sailing  down  out  of  the 
sunlit  sky  to  light  on  a  tree  by  the  border 
of  the  pond.  Very  white  they  looked  in 
the  glare  of  day,  and  I  wondered  at  first 
if  four  snowy  egrets  had  not  escaped  the 
243 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

plume  hunters  after  all  and  fled  north  for 
safety.  Probably  I  shall  never  see  snowy 
egrets  again,  though  they  used  to  stray 
north  as  far  as  this  on  occasions.  Now, 
even  the  night  heron,  which  used  to  nest 
hereabout  in  colonies  of  hundreds,  is  rarely 
seen. 

I  suppose  if  bird  species  must  become, 
one  by  one,  extinct,  we  can  as  well  afford 
to  lose  the  night  heron  as  any.  He  is  not 
a  particularly  beautiful  bird  in  appear- 
ance, though  these  four  seemed  handsome 
enough  as  they  sailed  grandly  down  into 
the  trees  on  the  pond  border.  His  voice 
is  unmelodious.  Quawk  is  only  a  con- 
venient handle  for  his  one  word.  It  should 
rather  be  made  up  of  the  roughest  con- 
sonants  in  the  language,  thrown  together 
with  raucous  vigor.  It  sounds  more  like 
"  hwxzvck ! "  shot  into  the  mud  out  of  a 

damp  cloud.    The  voices  of  night  herons, 
244 


VANISHING   NIGHT    HERONS 

sailing  in  companies  over  the  marshes  and 
ponds  used  to  sound  like  echoes  of  a  con- 
vocation of  witches,  falling  through  damp 
gloom  as  broomstick  flights  went  over. 
Shakespeare  named  a  witch  Sycorax.  He 
may  have  been  making  game  of  herons. 

To-day,  having  seen  these  four,  I  went 
down  to  the  places  which  used  to  be  the 
old-time  haunts  of  night  herons,  and 
looked  carefully  but  in  vain  for  traces  of 
their  presence.  It  is  their  nesting  time. 
There  should  be  eggs  about  to  hatch,  or 
young  about  to  make  prodigious  and  un- 
gainly growth  in  singularly  flimsy  nests 
that  let  you  see  the  blue  of  the  eggs  faintly 
visible  through  the  loosely  crossed  twigs 
against  the  blue  of  the  sky.  These  I  did 
not  find,  and  the  big  cedars  which  used  to 
be  so  populous  were  lonely  enough. 

Once  there  would  be  a  nest  in  every 
tree,  two-thirds  of  the  way  up,  and  a  big 
245 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

heron  sitting  on  guard  at  the  top  of  the 
tree,  or  astride  the  eggs  on  the  nest  itself. 
How  the  long  legged  mother  bird  could 
sit  on  this  loose  nest  and  not  resolve  it  into 
its  component  parts  and  drop  the  two-inch 
long  eggs  to  destruction  on  the  peat-moss 
beneath  is  still  a  mystery  to  me.  But  she 
could  do  it,  and  the  young  after  they  were 
hatched  did  it,  sometimes  six  of  them,  and 
the  nests  remained  after  they  were  gone, 
in  proof  of  it.  Most  birds'  nests  are  mar- 
vels of  construction;  the  black-crowned 
night  heron's  seems  a  marvel  of  lack  of  it, 
but  I  think  few  of  us  could  make  so  ill  a 
nest  so  well. 

The  night  heron's  day  begins  at  dusk 
and  ends,  as  a  rule,  at  daylight.  His  eyes 
have  all  the  night-seeing  ability  of  those 
of  the  owl,  and  he  finds  his  way  through 
fog  and  darkness,  and  his  food  as  well. 

Yet  the  bird  seems  to  see  well  enough  by 
246 


VANISHING   NIGHT    HERONS 

day.  The  four  that  sailed  down  to  the 
pond  yesterday  in  the  full  glare  of  the 
afternoon  sun  had  no  hesitation  about 
their  flight.  They  swung  the  corner  of 
the  wood  and  lighted  on  limbs  of  the  trees 
with  as  much  directness  and  certainty  as 
a  hawk  might.  Indeed,  when  their  vora- 
cious young  are  growing  up  they  have  to 
fish  night  and  day.  It  seems  to  me  that 
fish  must  be  becoming  more  plentiful  now 
that  the  black-crowned  night  herons  are 
few  in  number,  for  a  single  bird  must  con- 
sume yearly  an  enormous  quantity. 

I  undertook  the  care  and  feeding  of  two 
once  that  I  had  taken  from  one  of  those 
impossible  nests.  They  were  the  most  sol- 
emnly ridiculous  young  creatures  that 
were  ever  made.  "  Man,"  says  Plato,  "  is 
a  featherless  biped."  So  were  these  youth- 
ful night  herons.  They  were  pretty  nearly 

as  naked  as  truth  and  might  have  passed 
247 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

for  caricatures  of  the  Puritan  conscience, 
for  they  were  so  erect  they  nearly  fell  over 
backward. 

They  would  not  stay  in  any  nest  made 
for  them,  but  preferred  to  inhabit  the 
earth,  usually  just  round  the  corner  of 
something,  whence  they  poked  weird  heads 
with  staring  eyes  that  discountenanced  all 
creatures  that  they  met.  The  family  cat, 
notoriously  fond  of  chicken,  stalked  them 
a  bit  the  first  day  that  they  occupied  the 
yard.  At  the  psychological  moment,  when 
Felis  domesticatus  was  crouching,  green 
eyed,  for  a  spring,  the  two  gravely  rose 
and  faced  her.  She  took  one  look  at 
those  pods  of  bodies  on  stilts,  those 
strange  heads  stretched  high  above  on 
attenuated  necks,  and  faced  the  wooden 
severity  of  their  stare  for  but  a  second. 
Then  she  gave  forth  a  yowl  of  terror 

and  fled  to  her  favorite  refuge  beneath 
248 


VANISHING   NIGHT    HERONS 

the  barn,  whence  she  was  not  known 
to  emerge  for  a  space  of  twenty-four 
hours. 

There  was  something  so  solemn,  so 
"  pokerish,"  so  preternaturally  dignified 
about  these  creatures  that  they  seemed  to 
be  out  of  another,  eerier,  world.  If  we 
ever  get  so  advanced  as  to  travel  from 
planet  to  planet  I  shall  expect  to  find 
things  like  them  peering  round  corners 
at  me  on  some  of  the  out-of-the-way  satel- 
lites, the  moons  of  Neptune,  for  instance. 

Most  young  birds  will  eat  what  you 
bring  them  and  clamor  for  more  until  they 
are  full.  These  young  herons  yawned  at 
my  approach  as  solemnly  as  if  they  were 
made  of  wood  and  worked  by  the  pulling 
of  a  string.  Never  a  sound  did  I  know 
them  to  make  during  their  brief  stay  with 
me,  but  they  would  stand  motionless  and 

silent  and  gape  unwinkingly  till  a  piece 
249 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

of  fish  was  dropped  within  the  yawn. 
Then  it  would  close  deliberately  and  re- 
open, the  fish  having  vanished.  Fish  were 
plentiful  that  year  and  so  seemed  to  be 
time  and  bait,  and  I  became  curious  as  to 
the  actual  capacity  of  a  growing  night 
heron.  I  could  feed  either  one  till  I  could 
see  the  last  piece  still  in  the  back  of  his 
mouth  because  there  was  standing  room 
only.  Yet  if  I  went  away  but  for  a  mo- 
ment and  came  back,  there  they  stood,  as 
prodigiously  empty  as  ever.  The  thing 
became  interesting  until  I  began  to  dis- 
cover assorted  piles  of  uneaten  fish  about 
the  yard,  and  watching  soon  showed  what 
was  happening. 

Foot  passengers  out  in  the  country  have 
a  motto  which  says,  "  never  refuse  a  ride ; 
if  you  do  not  want  it  now  you  may  need  it 
next  time."  This  seemed  to  be  the  idea 

which  worked  sap-wise  in  the  cambium 
250 


VANISHING    NIGHT    HERONS 

layers  of  these  wooden  young  scions  of 
the  family  Nycticorax  nycticorax  nczvius. 
They  never  refused  a  fish.  As  long  as  I 
stood  by,  their  beaks,  having  closed  as  well 
as  possible  on  the  very  last  piece  required 
to  stuff  them  to  the  tip,  would  remain 
closed.  After  they  thought  I  had  gone 
away  they  would  stalk  gravely  round  a 
corner,  look  over  the  shoulder  with  an 
innocence  which  was  peculiarly  blear- 
eyed,  then,  believing  the  coast  clear,  yawn 
the  whole  feeding  into  obscurity  in  the  tall 
grass.  Then  they  would  stalk  medita- 
tively forth  with  hands  clasped  behind  the 
back,  so  to  speak,  and  gape  for  some  more. 
This  was  positively  the  only  thing  they 
did  except  to  wait  patiently  for  a  chance 
to  do  it  again,  and  I  soon  tired  of  them 
and  took  them  back  to  the  rookery,  where 
they  were  received  and,  so  far  as  I  could 
see,  taken  care  of,  either  by  their  own  par- 
251 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

ents  or  as  orphans  at  the  public  expense. 
It  all  seemed  a  matter  of  supreme  indiffer- 
ence to  these  moon-hoax  chicks.  There  is 
much  controversy  as  to  whether  animals 
act  from  reason  or  from  instinct.  I  am 
convinced  that  these  young  night  herons 
contained  spiral  springs  and  basswood 
wheels  and  that  thence  came  their  actions. 
Probably  had  I  looked  them  over  care- 
fully enough  I  should  have  found  them 
inscribed  with  the  motto,  "  Made  in 
Switzerland." 

I  fancy  many  people  confound  the  night 
heron,  known  to  them  only  by  his  wild- 
witch  cry,  voiced  as  he  flies  over  their 
canoe  in  the  summer  dusk,  with  the  great 
blue  heron, -which  is  nearly  twice  as  big 
a  bird.  Perhaps  I  would  better  say  twice 
as  long,  in  speaking  of  herons,  for  bigness 
has  little  to  do  with  them.  I  well  remem- 
ber my  amazement  as  a  small  boy,  coming 
252 


VANISHING   NIGHT    HERONS 

out  of  the  woods  onto  the  shore  of  the 
pond  with  a  big  muzzle-loading  army 
musket  under  my  arm  —  my  first  hunting 
expedition  —  and  scaring  up  a  great  blue 
heron. 

I  had  been  reading  the  "  Arabian 
Nights,"  and  knew  that  the  roc  was  a 
great  bird  that  darkened  the  sun  and  car- 
ried off  elephants  in  his  talons.  Very  well, 
here  was  the  very  bird  in  full  flight  before 
me,  darkening  the  entire  cove  with  his 
wings.  Es-Sindibad  of  the  Sea  might  be 
tied  to  the  leg  of  this  one  for  aught  I 
knew.  Mechanically  the  old  musket  came 
to  my  shoulder  and  roared,  and  when  I 
had  picked  myself  up  and  collected  the 
musket  and  my  senses,  there  lay  the  bird 
on  the  beach,  dead.  But  he  was  still  an 
"  Arabian  Nights'  "  sort  of  a  bird  for  one 
of  his  dimensions  had  vanished,  his  bulk. 
He  was  all  bill,  neck,  legs,  and  feathers, 
253 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

the  wonder  being  how  so  small  a  body 
could  sustain  such  a  spread. 

The  great  blue  heron,  in  spite  of  his 
slenderness,  which  you  can  interpret  as 
grace  or  awkwardness,  as  you  will,  is  a 
beautiful  bird  and  a  welcome  addition  to 
the  pond  shore,  the  sheltered  cove  or  the 
sheltered  brookside  pool  which  he  fre- 
quents. If  you  will  come  very  softly  to  his 
accustomed  stand  you  may  have  a  chance 
to  see  him  sit,  erect  and  motionless,  the 
personification  of  dignity  and  vigilance. 
The  very  crown  of  his  head  is  white,  but 
you  are  more  apt  to  notice  the  black 
feathers  which  border  it  and  draw  to- 
gether behind  into  a  crest  which  gives  a 
thought  of  reserved  alertness  to  his  mo- 
tionless pose. 

The  general  impression  of  his  coloring 
is  that  of  a  slaty  gray,  this  melting  into 
brownish  on  his  neck  and  being  prettily 
254 


The  wings  arch  in  similar  curves  and  lift  him 
seemingly  a  rod  in  air 


VANISHING   NIGHT    HERONS 

touched  with  rufous  and  black  on  other 
parts  of  the  body.  It  is  a  pleasure  to 
watch  his  graven-image  pose,  but  it  is  an 
even  greater  one  to  see  him  take  flight. 
His  long  legs  bend  under  him,  and  he 
springs  forward  into  the  air  in  a  mighty 
parabola.  The  wings  arch  in  similar 
curves  and  lift  him  with  the  very  first 
stroke  seemingly  a  rod  in  air,  and  as  they 
arch  forward  for  the  second  the  long  out- 
stretched neck  draws  back  and  the  long 
legs  trail  in  very  faithful  reproduction  of 
the  ornamentation  on  a  Japanese  screen. 
You  hardly  feel  that  here  is  a  living  crea- 
ture, flying  away  from  fear  of  you.  It  is 
rather  as  if  a  skillful  decorator  had  magic- 
ally painted  the  great  bird  in  on  the  drop 
scene  in  front  of  you.  But  the  flight  of 
the  great  blue  heron  is  strong  if  his  body 
is  small  in  comparison  with  his  other 
dimensions,  and  he  rapidly  rises  in  the 
255 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

majesty  of  power  and  flaps  out  of  sight 
over  the  tree  tops. 

The  great  blue  heron  is  not  rare,  but  I 
think  he,  too,  is  much  less  common  than 
he  used  to  be.  Usually  he  does  not  sum- 
mer with  us,  going  farther  north,  where 
he  nests  in  colonies.  I  seem  to  find  him 
most  often  in  late  September  or  October, 
when  he  drops  off  for  a  few  weeks,  a  pleas- 
ant fishing  trip  interlude  in  his  flight  to 
winter  quarters  in  the  south.  But  he  is 
here  now,  and  may  be  met  with  on  most 
any  May  morning  if  you  will  seek  out  his 
haunts. 

Fully  as  common  but  by  no  means  so 
noticeable  is  our  little  green  heron,  the 
third  species  of  the  genus  that  one  is  apt  to 
see  hereabouts.  You  will  usually  pass  him 
unnoticed  as  he  sits  all  day  long  in  the 
shadow  on  a  limb  near  the  shore.  Nor 

will  you  be  apt  to  see  him  until  he  becomes 
256 


VANISHING   NIGHT    HERONS 

convinced  that  you  are  about  to  approach 
too  near.  Then,  with  a  little  frightened 
croak,  that  is  more  like  a  squeak,  as  if  his 
hinges  were  rusty,  he  springs  into  the  air, 
flutters  along  shore  a  few  rods  and  dis- 
appears into  the  woods  again. 

The  thought  of  this  little  fellow  always 
brings  to  my  mind  the  silent  drowse  and 
quivering  heat  of  August  afternoons  along 
a  drought-dwindled  brook  where  cardinal 
flowers  lift  crimson  plumes  on  the  margin 
of  the  still  remaining  pools.  Here  where 
deciduous  trees  shade  the  winding  reaches 
he  loves  to  sit  and  wait  for  the  cool  of 
evening  before  dropping  to  the  margin 
and  hunting  his  supper. 

I  always  suspect  him  of  being  asleep 
there  with  his  glossy  black  head  thrust 
under  his  green  wing.  That  would  give 
him  an  excuse  for  being  surprised  at  close 
quarters  and  account  for  his  vast  alarm 
257 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

when  he  does  see  you.  If  not  I  think  he 
would  slip  quietly  away  before  you  got 
too  near  as  so  many  birds  do  that  see  you 
in  the  woods -before  you  see  them.  But 
perhaps  not;  perhaps  he  trusts  to  luck 
and  hopes  till  the  very  last  that  you  will 
pass  on  and  leave  him  to  watch  his  game 
preserves  in  peace  and  decide  which  fishes 
and  frogs  he  will  find  most  appetizing. 
The  little  green  heron  is  a  solitary  bird, 
a  very  recluse  in  fact,  and  I  do  not  recall 
ever  seeing  two  together.  He  is  a  nervous 
chap,  after  you  have  once  flushed  him, 
however,  and  if  you  watch  his  flight  with 
care  you  may  see  him  light,  stretch  his 
head  high  to  see  if  you  are  following  him, 
meanwhile  nervously  twitching  his  apol- 
ogy for  a  tail. 


258 


HARBINGERS   OF   SUMMER 


HARBINGERS    OF    SUMMER 


of  the  violet  dusk  of  some  June 
dawn  you  will  see  the  summer  coming 
over  the  hills  from  the  south  and  you  will 
know  her  from  the  spring  at  sight.  I  do 
not  know  how.  I  doubt  if  the  whip-poor- 
will,  who  has  a  jealous  eye  on  the  dawn 
and  its  signs,  for  its  first  appearance 
means  bedtime  and  surcease  from  labor 
for  him,  knows.  Yet  he  feels  her  presence, 
for  he  waits  it  as  a  sign  to  select  the  spot 
for  his  nest. 

The  whip-poor-will  is  hardly  a  home 
builder.  He  just  occupies  a  flat  for  the 
summer,  a  place  that  seems  no  more  fit  for 
a  home  than  any  other  flat.  Just  as  I 
often  wonder  how  apartment-house  dwell- 

ers find  their  way  back  at  dinner-time,  in 
261 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

spite  of  the  bewildering  sameness  of  the 
surroundings,  so  it  seems  to  me  quite  mi- 
raculous that  the  whip-poor-will  can  find 
the  way  back  to  the  eggs  or  young  at  day- 
break. Nest  there  is  none.  It  is  simply 
a  spot  picked,  seemingly,  at  random,  on 
the  brown  last  year's  leaves,  or  the  bare 
rock  of  the  pasture. 

But  the  whip-poor-will  has  been  here 
since  early  May,  and  till  now  has  not 
offered  to  take  an  apartment.  Yesterday, 
without  doubt,  he  saw  the  summer  coming 
and  picked  his  site.  By  to-morrow  or  next 
day  you  might  find  the  two  eggs  there  — 
if  you  are  a  wizard.  It  takes  such  to  find 
a  whip-poor-will's  eggs.  You  might  look 
at  them  and  never  see  them,  so  well  do 
they  match  the  ground  on  which  they  lie, 
—  more  like  pebbles  than  anything  else, 
with  their  dull  white  obscurely  marked 

with  lilac   and  brownish-gray   spots.      I 
262 


HARBINGERS    OF    SUMMER 

sometimes  think  the  mother  bird  herself 
fails  to  find  them  and  that  may  be  one 
reason  why  whip-poor-wills  do  not  seem 
to  increase  in  numbers. 

Like  the  whip-poor-will  the  scarlet  tan- 
ager  waits  sight  of  the  coming  of  summer 
before  he  begins  his  nest.  It  is  odd  that 
the  two  should  have  even  this  habit  in 
common,  for  otherwise  they  are  far  apart. 
The  tanager  is  essentially  a  bird  of  the 
daylight,  his  very  colors  born  of  the  sun. 
I  rarely  hear  him  or  see  his  scarlet  flame 
until  the  sunlight  is  on  his  tree  top  to  make 
him  seem  all  the  more  vivid.  Then  as  the 
day  waxes,  and  the  robins  one  by  one 
cease  their  singing,  he  takes  up  their  song 
and  continues  it,  often  until  the  robins 
return  to  the  choir  as  the  afternoon  shad- 
ows lengthen.  The  tanager's  song  is  sin- 
gularly like  that  of  the  robin,  only  more 
leisurely  and  refined.  After  you  have  be- 
263 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

come  familiar  with  it  you  begin  to  feel 
that  the  robin  is  a  very  huckster  of  a 
soloist. 

"  Kill  'im,  cure  'im,  give  'im  physic/'  is 
what  the  early  settlers  thought  the  robin 
sang  to  them.  It  always  seems  to  me  as 
if  he  sang,  "Cherries;  berries;  straw- 
berries. Buy  a  box;  buy  a  box/'  You 
might  translate  the  scarlet  tanager's  song 
into  either  set  of  words  but  you  would  not. 
Instead,  you  would  ponder  long  to  find  a 
phrase  whose  gentle  refinement  should  ex- 
press just  the  quality  of  it.  Then  I  think 
you  would  give  it  up,  as  I  always  do,  con- 
tent to  feel  its  pure  serenity,  which  is  quite 
beyond  words. 

The  tanager  is  just  about  beginning  the 
weaving  of  his  home,  which  is  as  gentle 
and  refined  in  structure  as  his  song.  You 
may  see  through  it  if  you  get  just  the  right 

position  from  below,  yet  it  is  well  built  and 
264 


HARBINGERS   OF    SUMMER 

strong,  woven  of  slender  selected  twigs 
and  tendrils,  a  delicate  cup,  just  big  enough 
to  hold  the  three  or  four  eggs  of  tender 
blue  with  their  rufous-brown  markings, 
and  the  olive-green  mother  bird.  The 
tanager's  life  is  as  open  as  the  day,  and 
as  he  watches  southward  from  his  pine 
tree  top  you  may  well  mark  the  coming  of 
summer  by  the  beginning  of  that  nest  well 
out  on  a  lower  pine  bough. 

And  if  you  are  not  fortunate  enough  to 
have  a  tanager  in  your  pine  grove  you 
might  well  take  the  time  from  another 
bird,  as  different  from  the  scarlet  flame 
of  the  tree  top  as  the  tanager  is  from  the 
whip-poor-will;  that  is  the  wood  pewee. 
As  the  whip-poor-will  loves  the  darkness 
and  the  tanager  the  bright  sun  of  the  top- 
most boughs  of  the  grove,  so  the  wood 
pewee  loves  the  resinous  depths  of  the 
pines,  where  in  the  hot  twilight  of  a  sum- 
265 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

mer  midday  he  pipes  his  cheerful  little 
three-note  song.  Like  the  cicada,  he 
seems  to  sing  best  when  it  is  hottest,  and 
the  thought  of  his  song  inevitably  brings 
to  mind  the  drone  of  the  summer-loving 
insect,  the  prattle  of  the  brook  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill,  and  the  lazy  dappling  of  the 
sunlight  as  it  falls  perpendicularly  to  the 
feathery  fronds  of  the  cinnamon  ferns  far 
below. 

He  who  would  find  humming  birds' 
nests  would  do  well  to  first  take  a  course 
in  hunting  those  of  the  wood  pewee.  The 
two  seem  to  have  the  same  type  of  mind 
when  it  comes  to  nest-building,  though  the 
wood  pewee's  is  five  times  the  size  of  the 
other  and  proportionally  easy  to  find. 
Each  saddles  his  nest  on  a  limb  and  covers 
it  outside  with  gray  lichens  from  the  trees 
nearby,  so  that  from  below  it  looks  like 

merely   a   lichen-covered   knot.      As    the 
266 


HARBINGERS    OF    SUMMER 

wood  pewee  loves  to  sing  his  song  in  the 
shadows  of  the  upper  levels  of  the  deep 
pine  wood,  so  he  loves  to  look  down  as 
he  sings  upon  his  nest  on  a  limb  below, 
usually  twenty  or  more  feet  from  the 
ground. 

Such  humming  birds'  nests  as  I  have 
found  have  been  made  of  fern  wool  or  the 
pappus  of  the  blooms  of  dandelions  or 
other  compositse  just  compacted  together 
and  lichen-covered.  The  wood  pewee 
builds  of  moss  and  fine  fiber,  grass  and 
rootlets,  using  the  lichen  covering  for  the 
outside,  as  does  the  humming  bird.  It  is 
a  beautiful  nest,  a  rustic  home  which  per- 
fectly fits  the  dead  pine  limb  on  which  you 
often  find  it,  and  its  surroundings,  a  nest 
as  rustic  as  the  grove  and  the  bird. 

These  two,  the  tanager  and  the  wood 
pewee,  I  know  are  already  picking  the 

limbs  for  their  nests  and  having  an  eye 
267 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

out  for  available  material,  for  I  know  that 
they  have  had  the  first  word  that  summer 
is  here.  I  got  it  myself  from  the  southerly 
slope  of  Blue  Hill,  a  spot  to  which  I  like 
to  climb  as  the  lookout  goes  to  the  cross- 
trees,  whence  the  southerly  outlook  is  far 
and  you  may  sight  the  sails  of  spring  or 
summer  while  yet  they  are  hull  down  be- 
low the  horizon  of  the  season. 

All  creatures  love  to  climb.  Here  along 
the  rocky  path  the  young  gerardias  have 
found  a  foothold,  and  put  forth  strange 
sinuate  or  pinnatifid  leaves  that  puzzle  you 
to  identify  them  until  you  note  the  last 
year's  stalks  and  seed-pods,  now  empty 
but  persistent.  Exuberance  and  young 
life  often  take  frolicsome  ways  of  expend- 
ing their  vitality.  When  the  gerardias 
are  two  months  older,  and  have  settled 
down  to  the  growing  of  those  wonderful 

yellow  bells  which  fill  the  woodland  with 
268 


HARBINGERS    OF    SUMMER 

golden  delight,  their  stem  leaves  will  lose 
all  this  riot  of  outline  and  coloration  and 
settle  down  to  plain,  smooth-edged  green. 
The  blossoms  may  need  a  foil,  but  will 
brook  no  rival  on  their  own  stem. 

The  path  that  I  take  to  my  southerly 
looking  masthead  soon  leaves  the  gerar- 
dias  behind.  They  need  alluvium  and  a 
certain  fertility  and  moisture,  and  the  crev- 
ices of  the  rock  are  not  for  them.  There 
as  I  climb  among  the  cedars  I  pass  the 
withered  stalks  of  the  saxifrage  that  a 
month  ago  made  the  crevices  white. 
Now  only  an  occasional  belated  blossom, 
scraggly  and  worn  as  if  with  dissipation, 
seems  hastening  to  reach  oblivion  with  its 
fellows. 

But  the  wild  columbine  still  holds  horns 
of  honey  plenty  for  the  sipping  of  moth 
and  butterfly,  whose  proboscides  are  long 

enough  to  reach  the  ultimate  tip  where  it 
269 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

is  stored.  You  may  have  a  mouthful  of 
honey  if  you  will  bite  off  the  tiny  bulbs  at 
the  very  ends  of  these  cornucopias,  —  a 
honey  that  has  a  fragrant  sweetness  that 
is  unsurpassed  in  flavor.  Nor  are  the 
bees  behind  you  in  knowledge.  They  may 
not  reach  the  honey  through  the  mouth  of 
the  horn,  but  they,  too,  can  bite,  and  many 
a  flower  shows  it,  now  that  their  season 
is  passing.  Their  coral  red  and  yellow 
glows  with  a  rich  radiance  in  the  dusk 
under  the  cedars,  and  they  have  climbed 
far  higher  than  the  gerardias. 

With  the  columbine,  right  up  onto  the 
very  ledges  themselves,  have  come  the 
barberry  bushes.  They  must  have  seen 
the  summer  coming,  and  they  were  the 
first  to  pass  the  hint  on  to  me,  for  they 
have  hung  themselves  with  all  the  gold  in 
their  jewel  boxes,  pendant  racemes  of 

exquisite   jewel    work    everywhere,    their 
270 


HARBINGERS    OF    SUMMER 

sprays  of  tender  green  grouping  and  sway- 
ing in  the  wind,  nodding  and  smiling, 
decked  with  earrings,  brooches,  bracelets, 
and  beads,  all  cunningly  wrought  of  solid 
gold.  Barberry  bushes  love  the  rough 
pasture  and  even  these  rougher  rocks,  yet 
they  bring  to  them  only  grace  and  ele- 
gance and  refinement,  and  receive  no  hint 
of  uncouthness  or  barbarity  from  their 
surroundings. 

These  and  a  score  of  other  herbs  and 
shrubs  clamber  blithely  upward  and  clothe 
the  rocky  hillside  with  beauty,  but  the 
queen  of  the  place  is  the  flowering  dog- 
wood. No  other  shrub  has  such  airy 
blitheness  of  decorative  beauty.  There  is 
something  about  the  set  of  the  leaves  that 
suggests  green-clad  sprites  about  to  dance 
for  joy,  but  now  every  dainty  branch  is  as 
if  thronged  with  white  butterflies,  poising 

for  flight.     No  other  plant  shows  such  a 
271 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

spirituality  of  delight  as  this  now  that  it 
knows  that  the  summer  is  here.  On  the 
plain  below  the  poplars  shimmer  and 
quiver  translucent  green  in  the  ecstasy  of 
young  leaves  all  tremulous  with  happiness 
and  the  tingle  of  surgent  sap.  Yet  neither 
tree  nor  shrub  nor  any  flowering  herb 
seems  to  so  stand  on  tiptoe  for  a  flight 
into  the  blue  heaven  above,  blossom  and 
leaf  and  branch  and  trunk,  as  does  this 
dainty  delight  of  the  shady  hillside,  the 
flowering  dogwood. 

The  summer  does  not  explode  as  does 
the  spring.  The  spring  promises  and  de- 
lays, approaches  and  withdraws,  coquettes 
until  we  are  in  despair,  then  suddenly 
swoops  upon  us  and  smothers  in  the  de- 
light of  her  full  presence.  But  the  sum- 
mer comes  genially  and  graciously  for- 
ward, announced  by  a  thousand  heralds. 

To-day  you  could  not  find  on  hillside  or 

272 


HARBINGERS   OF    SUMMER 

in  lowland  a  spot  that  did  not  glow  with 
the  fact.  On  a  bare  ledge,  where  the 
gnarled  cedars  have  held  the  rim  of  the 
hill  all  winter  long  against  the  gales  and 
zero  weather,  I  thought  I  might  find  a 
pause  in  the  universal  story.  Here  should 
be  only  gray  rock  and  a  rim  of  brown 
cedars,  as  much  the  furniture  of  winter 
as  of  summer.  But  I  had  forgotten  the 
outlook. 

On  the  fields  far  below,  the  tall  grass, 
so  green  that  it  was  fairly  blue  in  com- 
parison with  the  yellow  of  young  leaves, 
rushed  forward  before  the  wind  like  a 
green  flood  of  roaring  water.  Across  the 
plain  and  up  the  slopes  it  poured  as  the 
waters  of  Niagara  pour  down  the  slope 
to  the  brink  of  the  fall.  Even  the  white 
foam  of  the  rapids  was  simulated  in  the 
silvery-green  flashes  that  raced  with  the 
breeze.  Only  summer  grass  thus  flows. 
273 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

No  other  season  can  give  it  such  vivid 
motion. 

To  me  there  came  too  a  dozen  summer 
messengers.  Two  or  three  varieties  of 
transparent  winged  dragon  flies  swirled  in 
and  out  of  the  little  bay  of  sunshine.  A 
fulvous  and  black  butterfly  lighted  on  the 
rock  at  my  feet  and  gently,  rhythmically 
raised  and  lowered  his  wings.  It  was  as 
expressive  of  satisfaction  as  smacking  the 
lips  would  be.  Again  and  again  he  slipped 
away  and  then  sailed  back,  leaving  me  still 
in  doubt  as  to  whether  he  was  the  lovely 
little  Melitcea  harrisi,  or  Phyciodes  nyc* 
teis,  both  of  which  are  very  solemn  names 
for  pretty  little  butterflies  which  fly  about 
as  a  signal  that  summer  is  already  begin- 
ning to  glow  about  us. 

By  and  by  the  joy  of  the  spot  seemed 
to  soothe  him  and  he  settled  down  for  a 

longer  stay,  folding  his  wings  and  proving 
274 


HARBINGERS    OF    SUMMER 

to  me  that  he  was  nycteis  without  ques- 
tion, for  there  on  his  hind  wing  was  dis- 
tinctly the  mark  of  the  silver  crescent. 
Butterflies  should  have  been  popular  when 
knighthood  was  in  flower,  for  each  carries 
the  heraldic  blazon  of  his  house  where  all 
may  see. 

Soon  I  found  my  seat  on  the  rock  dis- 
puted by  a  pair  of  dusky-wings.  I  had 
found  the  earlier  dusky-wings  of  the 
woodland  paths  skittish  and  unwilling  to 
let  me  get  to  close  quarters  with  them. 
This  may  have  been  because  I  made  the 
advances.  I  had  been  seated  but  a  mo- 
ment when  this  pair  that  had  dashed 
madly  away  at  my  approach  dashed  as 
madly  back  and  very  nearly  lighted  on  me, 
then  they  dashed  away  again. 

Soon,  however,  they  came  back  in  more 
friendly  fashion  and  settled  down  within 
reach  of  my  hand,  where  I  could  observe 
275 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

them  at  leisure.  Then  I  saw  that  this  was 
to  me  a  new  variety  of  the  dusky-wing, 
the  Thanaos  persius  instead  of  Thanaos 
brizo,  as  I  had  thought.  Persius'  dusky- 
wing  had  climbed  the  hill  as  I  had,  to  see 
if  summer  was  coming,  and  had  found  it 
here.  The  pale  corydalis  which  nodded 
columbine-like  heads  of  softest  coral  red 
and  yellow  knew  it  too,  and  drowsed  in  the 
sunshine  as  did  the  butterflies,  but  I  went 
on,  seeking  more  evidence. 

On  the  shore  of  Hoosic-whissic  Pond  a 
wood  thrush  sits  on  her  nest  in  a  green- 
brier  clump,  within  ten  feet  of  noisy  pic- 
nickers. Bravely  she  sits  and  shields  her 
eggs,  nor  does  she  stir  for  all  the  riot 
about  her.  I  poked  my  head  within  the 
tangle  till  my  face  was  within  two  feet  of 
her,  and  still  she  did  not  move.  Her  throat 
swelled  a  little,  and  a  questioning  look 

came  into  her  eyes. 

276 


HARBINGERS    OF    SUMMER 

The  wood  thrush  is  a  shy  bird  at  ordi- 
nary times,  but  not  when  sitting  on  her 
nest.  Then  she  seems  to  suddenly  acquire 
a  modest  boldness  that  is  as  becoming  as 
the  gentle  shyness  of  other  times.  We 
looked  at  one  another  in  mutual  friendli- 
ness. I  noted  the  bright  cinnamon  brown 
of  the  head  fading  on  the  back  to  a  soft 
olive  brown,  the  whole  having  the  smooth- 
ness and  perfect  fit  of  a  lady's  glove.  The 
white  throat  and  some  of  the  black  mark- 
ings on  the  white  breast  were  visible  above 
the  rim  of  the 'nest,  and  her  bill  pointed 
skyward  in  the  trustful,  prayerful  attitude 
of  all  birds  on  the  nest.  Brooding  mater- 
nity has  the  same  prayerful  sweetness  of 
attitude  in  the  wood  thrush  that  it  has  in 
the  human  mother.  It  always  suggests 
white  hands  clasped  and  raised  in  prayer 
and  thanksgiving. 

While  I  watched  the  wood  thrush,  a 

277 


WOODLAND    PATHS 

quick  gleam  of  gold  and  black  caught  my 
eye  as  it  danced  by  in  the  sunshine  outside 
the  thicket.  Here  was  a  promise  of  sum- 
mer, indeed,  and  I  followed  it  on,  leaving 
the  brooding  thrush  to  her  happiness.  It 
led  across  the  open,  sandy  plain  to .  the 
south,  and  into  the  deep  wood  beyond. 
On  the  way  the  cinquefoil  and  buttercups, 
the  strawberry  blossoms  and  the  running 
blackberries  were  gay  with  fluttering  little 
red  butterflies,  the  coppers  and  the  cres- 
cent spots,  and  whites  and  blues,  a  kaleid- 
oscope of  shifting  colors, 'but  it  was  not 
until  I  got  into  the  deep  golden  shade  of 
the  dense  wood  that  I  saw  the  fulfilment 
of  the  promise. 

Here  in  the  glow  of  sunlight  so  strained 
and  etherealized  by  passing  through  flut- 
tering green  that  it  was  all  one  mist  of 
color,  a  vivid  heart  of  chrysoprase,'  I 

found  the  wood  full  of  great  yellow  butter- 
278 


Her  bill  pointed  skyward  in  the  trustful,  prayerful 
attitude  of  all  birds  on  the  nest 


HARBINGERS    OF    SUMMER 

flies,  dozens  of  them  dancing  up  and  down 
in  the  soft  radiance,  and  lighting  to  put 
gorgeous  yellow  blossoms  on  twigs  that 
could  never  put  forth  such  beauty  again. 
Here  was  the  summer,  coming  sedately 
through  the  gold-green  spaces  of  the  wood 
with  scores  of  golden  spirits  dancing  joy- 
ously about  her.  The  "  tiger  swallowtail/' 
Papilio  turnus,  as  the  lepidopterists  have 
named  him,  is  the  most  beautiful  of  all  our 
butterflies,  painted  in  gold  with  black  mar- 
gins, and  a  single  touch  of  scarlet  cun- 
ningly applied  to  each  wing.  All  the  glow 
of  summer  seems  to  be  concentrated  in 
him,  and  his  presence  is  the  final  test  of 
hers. 


279 


INDEX 


INDEX 


Actias  luna,  57 

Adam,  98 

Ajax,  238 

Aider,  32,  55,  98,  194 

catkins,  37,  146 

red,  192 

Alice-in-Wonderland,  202 
Alligator,  216,  217 

snapper,  216 

Amazon,  118 
Angler,  Compleat,  231 
Angle-wing,  144,  145 
Angleworm,  221,  222,  225,  227 

228,  232 
Ant,  228 

Antiopa  vanessa,  62 
Apple  tree,  18,  19,  43,  137,  I4I) 

Appomattox,  135 

April  fool's  day,  5 

Arabian      Nights'      Entertain 

ments,  82,  253 
Arctic,  19,  35,  36,  68 

circle,  5 

Ariel,  58,  129 
Ark,  85 
Aster,  140,  150 

B 

Babjlon,  124 
Bach,  172 
Bagdad,  124 
Barberry,  100,  270,  271 
Bay  berry,  166 
Beagles,  43 


Bear,  79 

Beaver,  76 

Bee,  105,  146 

honey,  205 

Bedlam,  43 

Beech,  79 

Benzoin,  53 

Berry  bush,  165 

Birch, .11,  75,  103,  105,  108,  126 
swamp,  125,  180 

Bittern,  210,  214,  218 

Blackberry,  running,  278 

Blackbird,  50,  73,  74,  167 

Blueberry,  swamp,  105 

Bluebirds,  18,  19,  32,  33,  34,  So, 
51,  107,  167 

Boa-constrictor,  215 

Bobolinks,  223 

Bog-hobble,  77 

Bog-hopple,  200 

Borer,  76 

Bubo,  6 

virginianum,  4 

Bufflehead,  59,  60 

3ulrushes,  77 

Bumblebee,  205 

Buttercup,  149,  278 

Butterfly,  angle-wing,  144,  145 

brown,  223 

blue,  278 

common  blue,  174 

Compton  tortoise,  145,  276 

coppers,  278 

crescent  spot,  278 


283 


dusky- wing,  224,  275,  276 

Grapta,  144 

Grapta  comma,  144 


INDEX 


Butterfly,  Grapta  interrogationis, 
144 

hesperid,  146 

hesperidaa,  223 

hunters',  141,  142,  146 

Melitasa  harrisi,  274 

mourning  cloak,  145,  146 

Nycteis,  275 

painted  lady,  146 

Papilio  turnus,  279 

Phyciodes  nycteis,  274 

question  mark,  146 

red,  278 

skipper,  146,  223 

skipper,  silver  spotted,  146 

tiger  swallowtail,  279 

white,  271,  278 

yellow,  278 

Thanaos  brizo,  244,  276 

Thanaos  persius,  276 

Vanessa  antiopa,  62,  145 

Vanessa  j-album,  145 

Buttonball,  189 
Buttonbush,  85,  86 


Callosamia  promethea,  55 

Caribbean,  9 

Caspian,  131 

Cassandra,   177,  203,  204,  205, 

211 

Catbird,  181,  211 

Caesar,  72 

Cecropia,  58 

Cedar,  118,  119,  125,  194,  211, 

213,  214,  245,  269,  270,  273 
pasture,  48,  181,  182,  184, 

189,  196 

swamp,  209 

white,  209 

Cetraria,  121 

Chelydra  serpentina,  216 


Cherry,  223,  264 
Cherry,  wild,  12,  53,  165 
Chestnut,  56 
Chewink,  180,  181 
Chickadee,  75,  126,  211 
Chickweed,  146 
Chrysanthemum,  122 
Cicada,  266 

Cinquefoil,  103,  149,  278 
Cladonia,  147 

brown-fruited,  147 

scarlet-crested,  147 

Cliff-dwellers,  84 
Clover,  white,  205 
Columbine,  wild,  269,  270 
Columbus,  119 
Compositse,  276 
Compton  tortoise,  145 
Conifers,  184 
Copper,  278 
Corydalis,  pale,  276 
Cranberries,  203 
Creeper,  211 

black  and  white,  191 


Crescent  spot,  278 
Cromwell,  115 
Cudweed,  142 
Cymbifolium,  122 


Daffodil,  25 

Dahlia,  39 

Daisy,  68 

Dandelion,  69,  146,  149,  267 

Daphne,  99,  107,  108 

mezereum,  107 

Darwin,  221,  224,  225,  232 

"  Dead  March,"  160 

Dog,  wolf,  36 

Dogwood,  flowering,  271,  272 

Doone,  Lorna,  94 

Valley,  98 


284 


INDEX 


Dove,  turtle,  207 

Drake,  59 

Duck,  33,34,  59.  6o»  Il8«  I27 

black,  59,  78,  84,  85 

bufllehead,  59 

diver,  59 

goldeneyes,  34 

sheldrake,  78 

whistler,  34 

Dragon,  215,  218 

flies,  223,  274 

Dusky-wing,  224,  276 


E 


Earthworm,  221,  224,  225 
Easter,  17,  121,  164 
Eden,  70,  81 

Eel,  95,  225,  231,  232,  233,  235, 
236,  237,  239 

electric,  235 

Egrets,  snowy,  243,  244 

Elephant,  253 

Elm,  178 

Eskimo,  36,  139 

Es-Sindibad,  253 

Ethiopians,  13 

Euphrates,  124,  126,  130,  131 

Eurydice,  95 

Eve,  98 


Faun,  177 

Federal  Government,  189 
Felus  domesticatus,  248 
Fern,  tree,  162 

cinnamon,  266 

Flicker,  75,  76 
Flies,  artificial,  222 

dragon,  223,  274 

Flowering  dogwood,  271,  272 


Fox,  79,  99,  100,  179 
Frog,  73,  130 

green,  191 

hyla,   128,   190,   191,  205, 


208 

leopard,  190,  195,  205,  206 

peepers,  129 

swamp  tree,  162,  164,  174 

wood    127,  190,  191 


Garden,  Mary,  229 
Gaul,  72 
Gettysburg,  135 
Gerardia,  268,  269,  270 
Goldeneyes,  34 
Goldenrod,  140,  150 
Goldfinch,  51,  172,  174 
Grapta,  144 

comma,  144 

interrogationis,  144 

Grasshopper,  222 
Green-brier,  180 
Greenland,  9 

H 

Hampstead  Ponds,  in,  124 

Hardhack,  189 

Hare,  March,  43,  44,  45,  63 

Havre,  8 

Hawk,  78,  247 

Hawthorne,  114 

Hemlock,  89 

Hepatica,   13,   14,   16,  63,   100, 

'  146 

Heron,  246,  249 
black-crowned,  night,  243, 

246,  247 
great  blue,  252,  253,  254, 

255,  256 
little  green,  256,  258 


285 


INDEX 


Heron,  night,  244,  245,  246,  247, 

252 

Hesperids,  146 
Hesperidae,  223 
Hill,  Blue,  267 

Great  Blue,  77 

Hook  of  Holland,  8 
Hoosic-whissic  Pond,  276 
Huckleberry,  48,  158 
Hudson's  Bay,  67,  160,  171 
Humboldt,  131 
Hummingbird,  266,  267 
Hunter,  146 
Hyla,  128,  190,  191,  205,  208 


Indian,  72,  116,  182,  206,  216, 
217 

bogies,  200 

Ponkapog,.  200 

Ironsides,  115 

J 

Jay,  blue,  168,  169 

Canada,  5 

Jericho,  73 
Joepye  weed,  77 

K 

Khayyam,  Omar,  114 
Kingbird,  191 

Kingfisher,    50,    168,    192,    193, 
194 


Lamphrey,  231 
Larch,  184,  186 
Lark,  meadow,  168 


Laurel,  mountain,  85 
Lent,  189 
Lichen,  121 
Lilac,  115,  148 

purple,  113,  114 


Lincoln,  117 
Lorna  Doone,  94 
Luna,  58 

M 

Mab,  58 

Macbeth,  172 

Mangrove,  85,  86,  189 

Maple,   13,   75,   105,   126,   128, 

146,  189,  194 
Marsh  grass,  77 

St.  John's-wort,  77,  140 

Meadow  lark,  168 
Meadow-sweet,  189 
Melitaea  harrisi,  274 
Memorial  day,  71 
Milkweed,  148 
Mole,  229 
Moose,  79 
Moss,  cedar,  122 

cetraria,  121 

cushion,  123 

lichen,  121 

Mnium,  dotted,  123 

Mnium  punctatum,  123 

Parmelia,  121 

Peat,  20 1, -246 

Sphagnum,  89,  122,  124 


Sphagnum  acutifolia,  122 

Sphagnum      cymbifolium, 

122 

Sphagnum  squarrosum,  122 

Sphagnum  stictas,  121 

Moth,  callosamia  promethia,  54 
luna,  57 


spice-bush  silk,  53 


286 


INDEX 


Moth,  Polyphemus,  57,  58,  60 

Promethea,  58 

Telia  polyphemus,  56 

Mountain  laurel,  85 
Mourning  cloak,  145,  146 
Mullein,  140,  150,  151 
Muskrat,  212,  213,  218 
Myles,  115 

N 

Neptune,  249 
Neptune's  trident,  93 
Nesaea,  200 

New  England,  115,  159,  225 
Newfoundland,  9 
Niagara,  273 
Nicaragua,  179 
Nile,  118 
Nimbus,  67 
Norman  conquest,  72 
Nycteis,  275 

Nycticorax   nycticorax    nsevius, 
243,  25i 

O 

Oak,  45,  98,  128 

scrub,  13,  44,  147,  179 

"  Old  Farmer's  Almanack,  "19 

Orchid,  39,  124 

Orinoco,  118,  124 

Oriole,  Baltimore,  178,  179 

Ovenbird,  223 

Owl,  barred,  5,  78 

horned,  3,  4,  5,  6,  9,  18, 

19,  44 


Painted  lady,  146 
Pan,  128 

Papilio  turnus,  279 
Paradise,  98 


Partridge,  4 
Parmelia,  121 

conspersa,  83 

Pasture  Pines  Hotel,  33,  34 
Peat,  89,  199 
moss,  20 1 


Peepers,  129 
Perch,  white,  59,  192 
Perseus,  276 
Persian,  114 
Peterborough  River,  239 
Peter  the  Hermit,  117 
Phyciodes  nycteis,  274 
Pickerel,  163 

weed,  163 

Pickwick  Club,  in 
Pickwick,  Samuel,  in,  124 
Pine,  24,  25,  27,  29,  32,  60,  61 

62,  63,  114,  147,  170.  265 

pitch,  1 68 

Pineapple,  186 
Plato,  247 
Plutonian,  97 
Plymouth,  115 
Polo,  Marco,  124 
Polyphemus,  57,  58,  60 
Ponkapog  brook,  112 
Ponkapog  pond,    79,    84,    in, 

199,  217 
Poplar,  272 
Poseidon,  93 
Pride,  231 
Priscilla,  115 
Promethea,  58 
Puck,  58 
Pumpkin,  228 
Puritans,  204,  248 
Pussy-willows,  98 


"Quawk,"  243 
Question  mark,  146 


287 


INDEX 


R 

Rabbit,  4 

Welsh,  202 

Rana  clamitans,  191 
Rattlesnake,  79 
Ridd,  John,  94,  98 
Robin,  33,  52,  74,  167,  178,  191, 
226,  227,  228,  230,  263 

snow,  68,  69 

Robin  Hood,  171 
Roc,  253 
Rookery,  23 
Roosevelt,  117 


Saki,  114 

Salmon,  91 

Samia  cecropia,  10,  13,  20,  55, 

56 

Saskatchewan,  174 
Sassafras,  53 
Saul,  1 60 
Saxifrage,  71,  269 
Saxons,  13 
Schumann,  172 
Shadbush,  158,  165 
Shagbark  tree,  76 
Shakespeare,  245 
Skipper,  146,  223 
Skunk-cabbage,  39 
Smilax,  105 

Snake,  water,  95,  96,  97 
Snowdrop,  146 
Snow,  robin,  68,  69 
Sousa,  229 
Southampton,  8 
Sparrow,  173 

chipping,  168,  211 

fox,  103,  168,  180 

song,  32,  33,  34,  36,  50,  51, 

63,  130,  167,  211 


Sparrow,  vesper,  130 
Sphagnum,  89,  122,  124 

acutifolia,  122 

cymbifolium,  122 

squarrosum,  122 


Spicebush,  195,  196 
Spirea  formentosa,  189 

salicifolia,  189 

Squirrel,  76 

red,  n,  125 

gray,  n 


Sticta,  121 

St.    John's-wort,    marsh,    79, 

140 

Strawberry,  186,  264,  278 
Suckers,  90,  92,  96,  98 
Swallow,  barn,  196 
Swamp,  cedar,  19 

Pigeon,  3,  6 

Sweet  fern,  165,  166,  167 
Sweet  gale,  165,  166,  167,  173, 

!74 

Switzerland,  252 
Sycorax,  245 


Talbot  plains,  77 
Tanager,  263,  265,  267 

—  scarlet,  264 
Telia  polyphemus,  56 
Terrapin,  217 
Thames,  231 
Thanaos  brizo,  224,  276 
Thanaos  persius,  276 
Thorough  wort,  77 
Thrush,  180,  211 

—  brown,  179,  180,  181 

—  wood,  276,  277 
Tibet,  118 

Tiger  swallowtail,  279 

288 


INDEX 


Tigris,  124,  126,  131 
Titania,  58 
Tropics,  7 
Tulips,  37 

Turtle,  95,   188,  207,  208,  209, 
217 

dove,  207 

mock,  202 

snapping,  216,  217 

spotted,  207,  218 

U 

Usnea  barbata,  12 


Vanessa  antiopa,  145 

j -album,  146 

Viburnum,  165 
Violets,  15,  68,  103,  146,  149 
— —  dwarf  blue,  71 
Vireo,  warbling,  77 


W 


Walnut,  57 

Walrus,  203 

Walton,  Izaak,  231,  239 

Warbler,  211 

Washington,  117 

Waterloo,  92 

Water-lily,  202 

parsnip,  190 

snake,  95,  96,  97 


West  of  England's  moors,  94 
Wheeler  place,  24 
Whip-poor-will,    261,   262,   263, 

265 

Whistlers,  34 
Willow,  13,  17,  32,  33,  100,  107, 

146,  187,  189,  191,  192 

pussy,  98 

Woodchuck,  100 
Woodcock,  5 
Woodpecker,  75,  76 
downy,  75 


Wood  pewee,  265,  266,  267 
Wright,  Orville,  146 


289 


